


Machines of Loving Grace

by airy_nothing



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Blaine Big Bang Challenge, Dalton Academy, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-29
Updated: 2013-08-29
Packaged: 2017-12-24 20:06:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 35,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/944102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airy_nothing/pseuds/airy_nothing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sci-fi AU in which Blaine Anderson wanders the halls of Dalton Academy, a safe haven created by his father after the events surrounding the Sadie Hawkins dance. Populated by student-machines, Dalton is an orderly place where everyone does exactly what Blaine wants . . . until Kurt Hummel (an actual real boy!) sneaks in to spy on the Warblers—which changes everything. Part gothic fairy tale and part sci-fi adventure, this is a story about adapting and surviving—and breaking free of the cage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Blaine Big Bang. Thanks to my magnificent betas: [judearaya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/JudeAraya/pseuds/JudeAraya), for cheering me on and appreciating the gothic elements of the story; [neyronrose](http://neyronrose.tumblr.com/), for being the skeptic I sorely needed throughout; and [misqueue](http://archiveofourown.org/users/misqueue/pseuds/misqueue), for the many fantastic across-the-globe conversations about Kurt, Blaine, and AI(!) that led to the story being what it is. Also thanks to [luckyjak](http://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=luckyjak), whose [post](http://luckyjak.tumblr.com/post/44304373754/kink-meme-tropes-and-fics) about world-building is partly responsible for what you're about to read. Finally, special thanks to [magicalplaylist](http://magicalplaylist.tumblr.com/), whose [brilliant art](http://sothinky.files.wordpress.com/2013/08/bbb500.png) is, well, so appropriately _Thinky_. In fact, there's an Appendix to the story where I go on to meta what she's created—just don't read that until you finish the rest! I was floored that she picked my story, and her art captures so eloquently the themes I was batting about in my brain all these months.

_[Blaine] built robots, just really handsome guys to surround himself with that believe in his ideals, that sang the songs that he wanted, sang in perfect harmony, did everything that he said, and so he runs the entire school. He is the principal, creator and master of all that is Dalton. And he just programs them to do his every will. The reason why he falls in love with Kurt is that he’s a human being._

_—Darren Criss_

_I like to think_   
_(right now, please!)_   
_of a cybernetic forest_   
_filled with pines and electronics_   
_where deer stroll peacefully_   
_past computers_   
_as if they were flowers_   
_with spinning blossoms._

_—Richard Brautigan, “All Watched Over by Machines of Loving Grace”_

 

As he sat at the headmaster’s desk and keyed in the necessary details registering the Warblers for their very first show choir competition, Blaine Anderson couldn't have known that selecting “Submit” would be the start of his world unraveling. 

He’d hovered over the button momentarily, sensing the weight of his decision—he’d felt doubt crackling to life inside him, the tiny, familiar spark forming in his mind. But then a gust of wind outside sent amber and garnet leaves fluttering past the second-story office window, and an impulsive mouse click later, he was done. 

And he thought, smiling wildly, that it was the best decision he’d made in a long while.  

Blaine happily retrieved his messenger bag from the chair opposite the desk and made for the door. On his way out he passed the headmaster, who nodded at him solemnly before glancing toward the now vacant office. Blaine nodded back, still giddy, and headed for the atrium. He’d explain later. Right now he was nearly bursting with energy, and he needed to get to Warblers’ practice fast to share the news.

When Blaine stepped into the atrium with its glass and wrought iron dome, he halted and blinked. It was such a bright day. He walked to the railing and took in the bustle of activity around him as students wove through the space below, a few carrying lacrosse sticks on their shoulders as they moved into the corridor beyond. He noticed some of the students stealing furtive glances at him, which he tried to ignore. Whatever they wanted could wait. Blaine was happier today than he’d been in ages, and he wasn’t going to let anything chip away at it. Letting go of the railing, he started down the flight of stairs. 

“Blaine? _Blaine,”_ said a voice, and Blaine looked down and spotted Trent, who seemed to be waiting for him. Trent looked . . . concerned.

“Morning, Trent,” Blaine said. “Walk with me?” Trent nodded in reply, and they fell into an easy pace together as they made their way through the halls.

“What’s going on?” Blaine asked. “Is everything okay?” Usually Trent was eager and compliant. Although really, all of the Warblers and pretty much everyone populating the school were identical in that regard, Blaine reminded himself. 

“Yeah. Yes. Of course!” said Trent. “We just—”

“Trent,” Blaine stopped, reaching out for the fellow Warbler’s arm. “I can tell something’s not right. What’s this all about?” Blaine noticed Trent was avoiding his gaze, so he said more firmly, “I really need you to talk.” _Now more than ever,_ came the unbidden thought and a return flicker of doubt regarding that competition entry form he’d just submitted. “I can’t help if you don’t. That goes for all the guys, right?”

Trent looked at him uncertainly. “Right. Okay.” He shook his head. “It’s Wes,” he said finally, in a huff. 

“What about Wes?” asked Blaine.

“Just don’t be mad,” said Trent, grimacing.

Blaine gave his most reassuring smile, even though a sigh escaped his lips as he did so. “But why would I be, Trent?” _What now?_ he thought.

“Uh, well remember how you asked us all to—how did you put it?—‘stop being such automatons’?” Trent asked. Blaine could swear that Trent’s voice carried just a hint of something, and that same something had flickered in his eyes as he spoke. _Was it resentment? Indignation?_ Blaine brushed the thought away as soon as it came, it seemed so impossible. Probably Blaine was just projecting his own guilt at how rude he’d been. 

“Er, sorry about that,” Blaine replied, as he rubbed his hand behind his neck, embarrassed by his words from the other day. It was that outburst that had caused him to finally register them for sectionals. He wanted—check that. He _needed_ so desperately to connect with new people. Different people.

“No, don’t be,” said Trent, who was looking at him anxiously now. “But Wes, he took it all very seriously, as he _does_ , and he’s been assigning, um, personality quirks to all of us, I guess? Do you want to know what mine is, Blaine?” he asked, eyebrows raised. Blaine nodded. “I’m supposed to, apparently, fold my hands together and _beg_ for things once in a while. Like this,” he said, his hands pressed together, a pleading look in his eyes. “ _Please_ tell Wes that this is ridiculous, Blaine? _Please?”_

Blaine sighed more loudly now. The news about the competition would have to wait. In fact, Blaine wondered if he would ever be able to tell them at all. What if they could never be truly ready to compete? Blaine’s heart clenched at the thought, he wanted so badly to go—so badly to see something, _anything_ outside of the Dalton campus. These days, the grounds of Dalton were all he knew.

_But what was he so worried about, anyway?_ he wondered, as he and Trent walked with a greater sense of urgency toward the senior commons. Certainly not the Warblers’ singing abilities, because they were perfect. He’d made them that way. 

And yet, as he and Trent entered the room where Warblers were scattered about busily practicing their assigned “quirks” and looking utterly alien, Blaine realized just how difficult it was going to be to for them to compete. 

Because none of them were real. 


	2. Dalton Academy

Earlier that week, Blaine had accused the Warblers of acting like automatons, which was less an accusation and more a mere statement of fact. 

And it hadn’t even been a reference to their robotic dancing.

It happened during the last Warblers’ Council meeting, where there had been a lengthy discussion about the next song they should arrange and choreograph. For Blaine, the trouble with these conversations was that they always ended the same way. The group would become increasingly indecisive, offering up idea after idea before invariably turning to Blaine to hear his opinion. Then generally whatever he said next would be accepted enthusiastically. Nothing ever changed.

At this week’s meeting, Blaine had once again tried to stay out of it as long as he could, hoping that they would surprise him and pick something of their own accord. There were no surprises, of course, and maybe it was the combination of Blaine’s frustration and the fact that his father had been making excuses lately and skipping his visits to Dalton that led him to say what he did. The room had gone completely silent after that, and then Blaine had walked out, not being able to look upon the Warblers’ crestfallen faces. 

Today he left them for a different reason, after standing in the doorway with Trent and watching their uncanny behavior, their strange attempts at trying to achieve individuality. Wes kept banging the gavel, while Rick was doing some kind of head bobbing thing. Nick winked at everyone, and Thad kept brushing off his Dalton jacket lapels. As he surveyed the room Blaine wondered if he should simply withdraw their application for sectionals. Turning on his heels he left, his history with the Warblers weighing on his mind. He needed some fresh air.

 

Blaine used to find the meetings helpful. The Warblers (and really, all the students) preferred structure. His father had always emphasized that given at least _some_ direction, some boundaries, the students could operate in a way that was satisfying to them. So Blaine had created a council; he’d made up a history even, full of traditions and anecdotes. The inclusion of Pavarotti in the mythology of the group—the pretty yellow bird Cooper had given to him the first time he’d visited him here at Dalton—was particularly inventive, he’d thought at the time. He’d appointed some leaders (Wes obviously) and allowed the group to gel organically. _Organically_ —yes, because there was a way that they responded and changed within the confines of their knowledge bases, he’d watched it happen throughout all these months. They were strikingly real and yet, woefully unreal. He could socialize with them but none were exactly “friends.” They _approximated_ _the idea_ of friends, Blaine thought, as he made his way silently across the courtyard. 

And that had been enough, especially since there had been so many other things to worry about first. In the beginning (just about a year ago now, Blaine realized) the Warblers could barely harmonize, and their dancing was horrible. While Blaine and his father became obsessed on weekends with tweaking the programming, with finding ways to better help them control their voices and movement—or better _hear_ and reproduce music and rhythm, pitch and tone and phrasing—Wes and David worked to motivate the group, always dangling the prospect of competing one day against other clubs. The introduction of that particular carrot had been Blaine’s fault. Talking with Wes and David one day, who’d been struggling with coordinating a group number, Blaine had asked what he could do to help. 

“Give us a reason for practicing these things over and over,” Wes had said. “You can’t just ask us to do things, and then assume we will just because you asked.” 

“We're not that crude,” David added.

“I know,” Blaine said. “I know.” In fact he hadn’t known and even now, often forgot. Back then, he was just beginning to understand how complex the students were, especially the Warblers. The realization had surprised him. “Why don’t we work toward competing?” he’d offered without thinking it through. Of course Wes and David had loved the idea.

When Blaine had told his father the following weekend, however, he’d regretted it. They’d been sitting in the headmaster’s office, where Mr. Anderson was updating some of the school’s security systems.

“Blaine, what were you thinking? You can’t possibly make good on that promise,” his father said, running his hands through his graying, curly hair. Adjusting his eyeglasses he continued, “Someday when you’re older—”

“When I’m older?” Blaine countered. “It’s been a whole year since that night, Dad. And I’m doing _so_ much better, and this would really just mean us getting out on stage and I think it would be safe—”

“Blaine. _Blaine_. Trust me. I know more about the students at your school than you do. Can you imagine what would happen if something went wrong? If there were a malfunction? In public? Blaine—you just . . . People aren’t ready for that kind of thing. Do you understand? Maybe because you’re with them all the time, you’ve finally started to get close to them. You see them differently now, like they’re friends. I mean, that was part of the point of all this, wasn’t it?” His father leaned back in the headmaster’s chair. “I’m sorry, son, but no. That simply cannot happen. Besides,” he said, leaning closer again. “What I’m doing—what we’re doing—is experimental, I’ve been given permission, you know. I’ve risked some things to make this world for you. I get that you like to sing and dance, Blaine, but this is . . . This is _serious_ business we’re talking about here,” he said, tapping the pads of his fingers on the desk for emphasis.

Blaine had tried not to let his father’s comments sting too much. “Right, Dad. I get it,” he’d nodded, as his father got back to work.

But here Blaine was, seven months later, wondering if he was now playing with fire. As he continued to walk the grounds, he noticed that most of the students were heading inside as the campus quieted down for the day. Above him a flock of geese honked its way past, and he witnessed the leader of the V who’d been taking the brunt of the wind fall back as the next goose pushed forward to take charge. Then the flock kept going: they flew beyond the confines of Dalton. It was that easy.

Blaine blinked in the late-afternoon sun, somewhat bitter at the thought that no creature—not even the geese—cared about his plight. To the world outside, it was as if Dalton Academy didn’t even exist. In fact, as expansive as the grounds were, it would be easy for outsiders to drive right past them, since they were surrounded on all sides by evergreens, by spruce and hemlock planted densely enough to block curious eyes. A one-lane road (with curves that served to obscure the line of sight) was the only way in, but an intricately-wrought gate blocked stray cars from trying the route. 

The various buildings of the school—the clock tower and main hall, the dormitories, the classrooms—were all located in the center of the property. Surrounding them were the athletic fields, and beyond that, lawns rolling cleanly out to the bases of the trees. To Blaine, who’d explored the entirety of it over the last year and a half, the buildings seemed like an island. Or a castle. And regardless of the beauty of the place, he felt conflicted. He was surrounded by people, but utterly alone. He was completely free to do as he wished, and yet more or less caged as he did so.   

Climbing the clock tower near dusk, as he sometimes did, Blaine felt a lot like a character in a fairy tale. When he was just a child his mother used to tell him tales of Juan, endlessly clever. In his favorite Juan story, a king and queen who’d desperately wanted a son gave birth to a monkey. Disappointed, they turned him away, wanting nothing to do with him. But Juan didn’t give up so easily, and once he learned of a princess locked away in an island castle, he devised a plan. By the end of the story Juan had proven everyone wrong, and the princess married him for who he was and lived with him in the mountains, even if she was sad about leaving her old life behind. Thankfully Juan could discard his monkey skin—after he did he took the princess home and eventually became king. He shook his head at the fond memory of those tales, and at the memory of his mother. 

From the belfry he scanned the tree tops and wondered if his own rescuer were out there. He let himself slide down to the floor, hugging his legs to his chest and resting his head back against the brick tower wall, remembering his father’s words from two summers ago. _You have to let us protect you,_ he’d said. _Please, let us protect you._

As he felt the light breeze of the early autumn night, Blaine wasn’t sure he felt _protected_ at all. He felt _kept. Preserved._ And those seemed like very different, very troublesome things. 

He sat until the breeze made his skin feel cool to the touch, until the last pink streaks left the sky. 

 

It was dark as Blaine finally entered the dormitory; he shut the large doors behind him and engaged the deadbolts. He probably didn’t need to bother—there honestly wasn’t much need for security at Dalton, regardless of what his father thought. No fights broke out. No insults were hurled. No alcohol was smuggled in for late-night parties. If that made for a rather dull existence, Blaine hadn’t really complained. Compared to the days when he was constantly looking over his shoulder, when even the syncopated sound of a group of kids running across pavement caused him to freeze, his life now was quiet and, he had to admit, safe. 

Even if it was also completely bizarre.

On nights like tonight, after witnessing Wes’s attempts to make the Warbler members behave more like individuals, he felt restless. On nights like tonight, he wandered the upper stories of the dormitories like a ghost, thinking and waiting. Always waiting. And yet he’d come to enjoy the quiet after everyone went to bed, because the facade of Dalton being any kind of real school ended once all the boys closed their dormitory doors. If he were to open those doors (and sometimes he did, out of boredom—he’d pick a corridor and open them, one by one), he would find nothing of consequence. No one socializing or studying. No one playing pranks or breaking out into song. No one watching television or wandering out of their rooms for a late-night snack. Just a hall of darkened rooms where machines sat motionless, recharging themselves.

Blaine supposed he could have programmed them differently—he could have made them more active at night. But he’d come to rely on that small pocket of time when no one pretended to be something they weren’t. And Blaine? He could just be, even if lately he wasn’t sure that was enough.

Because whatever his current life was here at Dalton, it wasn’t that of a student, even as “students” walked to and from their classes, or played in the fields, or did homework in the study rooms. He’d been given the tools to create this world, _his_ world. At first he’d welcomed that freedom as a gift. His parents had moved him into one of the dormitory rooms, and he’d let himself get caught up in planning with his father, in programming some of the first inhabitants of his new home. Wes was one of those. Blaine remembered being taken aback when Wes first opened his eyes and said, “Hello. You must be Blaine.” And then Wes had extended his hand, even as he sat sort of crumpled on the floor of their makeshift laboratory. Blaine’s father beamed at Wes, then Blaine, and offered, “See? Soon we’ll have a whole school—and none of these students can hurt you, Blaine. None of them.”

As Blaine walked the corridor back to his own room to get ready for bed, he realized that he no longer found his father’s words comforting. 

 

A knock at the door early the next morning lured Blaine out from where he’d burrowed under the covers. It was Wes, who pushed past Blaine while carrying a stack of what appeared to be sheet music. Blaine stifled a yawn and asked, “What’s all this?” 

“Music,” said Wes, simply. 

“Yeah, but—” Blaine was certain he hadn’t told the Warblers about sectionals, especially after walking out on them yesterday, so what was this all about?

Wes was still holding the stack of sheet music in his arms. “You know, people problem solve in different ways.”

“ _Okay_ . . .” responded Blaine, gesturing for Wes to go on. 

“Don’t be so quick to judge us.” Wes turned and walked to Blaine’s desk and placed the pile of paper there. Looking back at Blaine he said, “Remember when we first started learning dance steps? Well—such as they were. We probably looked pretty . . . _robotic_ ,” he sighed. Blaine knew Wes hated that particular word. “In fact we spent countless hours with you and your father, just trying to make our movements slightly—how did you put it?—sloppy. But _differently_ sloppy,” he said, smiling now. “Because otherwise we moved _identically_ , _precisely_ , once we knew what to do.”

“I remember,” Blaine said, feeling more guilty now about taking his frustrations out on the group.

“Besides, what _is_ personality anyway, but a collection of habits? _Emotional_ habits—we react to things according to patterns that are unique to us. Or, like you saw yesterday, _physical_ habits. Quirks.”

“That seems kind of reductive,” said Blaine, crossing his arms in front of his body. “And it still doesn’t explain why you’re here so early in the morning, or why you’ve barged into my room with that pile of music.”

Wes rolled his eyes in response, and pointed at his face as he did so. “See?” he said. “A physical habit _._ Does it give me enough personality?”

Blaine laughed and said, “Ok. Fine. _The music.”_

“I think,” Wes started, “That we need to move beyond being your personal jukebox.”

Confused, Blaine countered, “But you guys always accept my suggestions. How is that my fault?”

“It’s not,” said Wes. “I think the rest of us simply don’t have suggestions. Outside of our normal routines, we don’t really listen to music. We’re not so inclined. _You’re_ the one who really knows music, so—”

“You want me to assign different artists to all of you? To give you individual musical tastes?” Blaine sat on the edge of his bed, thinking. In moments like these he was reminded of how easily he could just _do_ things—act on impulse—even if those things were as simple as making song suggestions. 

“If it’s not too much trouble,” said Wes, heading now for the door. 

“Well,” Blaine stood, making yet another impulsive decision. “I guess that will come in handy, seeing as I registered Dalton Academy for the Western Ohio Show Choir Sectionals.”

Wes paused, taking in what Blaine just admitted, then grinned widely and said, “Oh? Very good. I’ll be sure to tell the others. They’ll be very pleased, Blaine.”

As the door shut, Blaine turned back to the sheet music. Realizing what he’d finally, firmly set in motion, he sat down to look through the stack as a task list took shape in his mind.


	3. Teenage Dream

Blaine was running late. 

As he descended the atrium staircase on his way to the senior commons, his mind was cluttered with lists of things to do—and accompanying things to worry about. The sectionals competition was coming up, and foremost on Blaine’s mind was testing the Warblers. Would people outside of Dalton, like the competition audience and judges, suspect anything? Would they be able to tell that just about all of the Warblers were, in effect, machines? Or even better, would he be able to shift enough attention onto himself so that they wouldn’t be suspicious at all?

Blaine hoped to get answers today, as a result of a rather informal experiment he’d planned. The Warblers were about to give a performance, and there would be an audience. Not a _real_ audience, but an audience nonetheless—one he’d been working on programming. This audience was going to go _wild_ , and Blaine was curious about how the Warblers would react to that. He didn’t know if they would get distracted, or confused—or if they would just stop singing altogether. Mostly, he was worried that they would behave in some way that didn’t seem human. 

Blaine entered the commons, and seeing as it was a sunny day, stepped through the French doors to stand out on the terrace and think. 

The truth was, the Warblers had never actually performed _for_ anyone. Sure, they’d typically stake out space in the senior commons, a room that was large enough to accommodate the entire group. Sometimes they’d sing and dance in some of the larger hallways as choreography demanded. But for the most part, no one else cared about them. After all, the other students weren’t designed to stop and join in the spectacle, really, as sophisticated as they were. And how could Blaine program spontaneity? How could he recreate that pull he used to feel when he would hear fellow junior high choir members start to sing, when he would feel drawn to join them as if he were a puppet and they held the strings?  

Dalton students didn’t quite work that way. 

Given a new situation, they had a decision tree that guided their reactions, but they were more complicated machines than that. They could learn new things, add to their menus, Blaine knew. He supposed real people weren’t that different. He understood all too well the difference between fight or flight, and wasn’t that a kind of menu of options, too, a basic decision to either hold one’s ground or run for it? As he looked out onto the campus, at all the students moving from class to class, he wondered about his own responses to things, and why, so often, one of those two actions seemed to take priority over the other.   

Usually the students’ priority was to stick to their schedules, and they operated according to their priorities. So over the last few weeks Blaine had spent his days inviting students to the lab one by one—not every student, but enough in total to make up a good-sized crowd. He’d written new algorithms, he’d tweaked heuristics so the students would respond differently, so they’d be drawn to the performance instead of their next class. It wouldn’t create that feeling Blaine was familiar with necessarily, but it would perhaps create the illusion well enough. Normally he’d ask his father for help with the technology, but since Blaine was sure his father would be upset with him about registering the Warblers for sectionals, he’d kept his activities completely to himself. It wasn’t the first time Blaine had taken charge of what his father referred to as The Dalton Project.

The last time that happened, in fact, the Warblers had been the result. 

 

Actually creating the Warblers had been his older brother Cooper’s idea. Cooper, who didn’t have a clue about programming. Cooper, who’d barely been home since Blaine’s life had been forever changed. And yet the first time Cooper got the Dalton tour from Blaine and his father, inspiration had struck.

“Squirt,” he’d said, “you can’t just spend all your time programming your team of bodyguards.” At his last word he coughed into his hand, sneaking in “boyfriends,” before coughing again. “You need to be singing. And dancing—you need to work on your dancing. Take the advice of my acting coach. She says you’ve got to ‘take your passion, and let it happen.’”

Blaine rolled his eyes as they walked into the senior commons. “Stop calling me that, and your ‘teacher,’” he air quoted, “is just feeding you a line from a _Flashdance_ song.” And then in a softer voice, so his father wouldn’t hear he added, “And they’re not my _boyfriends_. They’re basically robots, remember?” 

“That doesn’t make it less true,” said Cooper, as he flopped onto the leather couch in the center of the room. He spread his arms wide and leaned back, resting his head. Closing his eyes he asked, “Why don’t you form a glee club or something? Remember how much you liked choir at your old school?” 

Blaine crossed his arms and sat on the couch across from Cooper. “A glee club?” he said. “Here?”

Blaine and Cooper’s father, who’d seated himself at a nearby table, was busy recording notes and making lists in a Moleskine. He finally spoke up, even as he kept his eyes fixed on his work. “I don’t see how that’s possible, Coop. You know how complicated that would be? To have them sing? And actually dance? I don’t even know where we’d begin with that one. It’s not what they were originally designed to do.” He looked up at them and added, “Singing and dancing aren’t really high on the list of skill sets for military cyborgs.”

Blaine caught Cooper’s gaze and both boys smiled. Their father never did understand their love of music. Or performing. He mostly tolerated it. His father’s relationship with Cooper had been and still was full of battles, over college, over the direction Cooper’s life had taken since he'd earned a degree. Cooper was a free spirit who dreamt big. Even if Blaine sometimes hated the attention Cooper could so easily pull onto himself, he secretly envied the ease with which Cooper could just do what he wanted. 

But in that moment, as he sat and watched Cooper, Blaine knew he was right. Not about the robot boyfriends part, but about _singing_ again. Because Blaine spent plenty of time at the grand piano in the music room, especially during the evening, when his mind was uncluttered, where he could take songs he loved and reinterpret them with 88 keys. But having a project like this, a group where he could work not just with song but dance, too, where he could layer their voices and build not only machinery but art . . . _That_ could be a good use of his time.  

So he plucked up some courage and announced simply, “Dad, I like Cooper’s idea. Like, I _really_ like it.”

“You said ‘like’ three times,” his father replied, his face buried again in his notebook. But Blaine noticed the slight smile forming on his lips as he wrote. “And I’m already working on some ideas for how to do this,” Mr. Anderson continued, looking up now to meet Blaine’s gaze. 

All three of them laughed at that, Blaine most of all.

They ended up in the laboratory soon after, where Cooper had proved less useful once the conversation moved to more technical matters. As Blaine and his father brainstormed, the younger son marveled at how he fit into this strange family. At times like that day in the lab, he felt like the glue. Because Blaine had an affinity for both men, an interest in his father’s work (at least the mechanics of people, not cars, as they’d discovered one disastrous summer) and a love for music and song. If anything, he and his father understood tinkering. Blaine’s bedroom at home was filled, actually, with all sorts of machines, with robots and cameras and even toy roadsters. 

Maybe what connected him to both his father and brother was that with both men, he could create things. 

 

It was the maintaining things that was hard, Blaine thought, rooted in the present again, the school bell pulling him out of his reverie. The campus was quiet as students were now in their classrooms. He supposed he should go too—he did actually have a schedule. But as both master _and_ student, he had a hard time keeping up that particular part of the Dalton facade. 

Blaine spent the rest of the morning in the headmaster’s office, where he sat at the desk researching the sectionals competition while Headmaster Edwards sat in a corner chair. Blaine wanted to familiarize himself with the rules of high school show choir, because, well, someone needed to know them. The last thing he wanted was to be disqualified on some technicality. Like having a team composed of cybernetic organisms. Was there anything in the rules about that? he thought uneasily. 

Blaine using the office computer had become, in recent months, a common occurrence. Partly it was due to the Dalton Project, which required special sensitivity as far as any communication—or online connectivity—was concerned. After all, his father worked under government contract, and Dalton Academy was made possible thanks to that. Dalton, in the end, was much more than an Anderson family project; it was tied to national security in ways that even Blaine wasn’t privy to, even if he knew, vaguely, that it involved the military. 

But Blaine wondered sometimes if his frequent trips to use the computer had more to do with the company Edwards provided, since he wasn't a "student" like the others. Edwards was programmed differently (he had an additional set of security subroutines the others lacked), and he looked different too. Older, with graying hair just like his father. Even though Blaine often made excuses to use the computer and office here, he kind of liked talking to the headmaster. He was a good sounding board, especially in recent months as his father’s visits became more rare.  

On this particular morning Headmaster Edwards kept looking up from his own work periodically to glance at Blaine. "What?" Blaine asked finally. The headmaster regarded Blaine evenly and said, "You're father won't be pleased."

Blaine's heart sank at that. His thoughts immediately went to the show choir competition. _How did Edwards even know?_ But then he checked himself, and thought, _Oh_. _It's not about that._ Meeting the headmaster's gaze Blaine countered, "He already knows I don't go to class anymore."

"That's not what I was referring to, but yes, he does know you don't attend class, not like you used to." 

"Wait. So what are you referring to then?" Blaine asked, trying for nonchalance. He had enough on his mind today as it was—he didn't need to be worrying about his father, too. But the headmaster's position here was an oddity, like many oddities of Dalton, just a part of the texture of the place. Part of the verisimilitude Blaine and his father had tried to achieve. And yet, Blaine often wondered if there was something special about Edwards' program in particular, not that he thought his father would necessarily spy on him. He found his heart racing anyway.

"You entered them in the Western Ohio Show Choir Sectionals,” the headmaster said. “And so I wonder, how do you plan to actually _attend_ a competition? Unless, of course, I've misread this situation and your father is working on a solution as we speak."

"Er . . ." uttered Blaine, who really was taken aback. "How did you, um, know?"

Edwards stopped to observe Blaine. Suddenly, he seemed to be scrutinizing his body language, his gaze, his everything. "Your father doesn't know, does he?"

"Edwards."

"Blaine, Sir, you can't possibly—"

Blaine held his palms up at Edwards and said, "It's all under control. I've got this, okay? I know what I'm doing." The trouble was, he really didn't know what he was doing. Just that he needed to _do_ it. 

Edwards looked conflicted. Come to think of it, Blaine didn't think he'd ever seen him look this way before. 

Just as the headmaster seemed ready to speak again, Blaine cut him off. "I'm going to tell Dad. I just—need to be able to show him what I have planned. It's going to be okay. Really."

Blaine noticed the clock then, and realized that the Warblers were probably already warming up for the performance. "I have to go," he announced, practically jumping up from the chair. "I'll explain more later."

"You say that a lot," replied the headmaster, walking back to his desk to resume doing whatever it was that he did throughout the day.  

 

Blaine walked out into the atrium and immediately noticed from his vantage point atop of the staircase that something was different. Instead of the usual orderly movement during the passing period between classes, certain students (familiar because he'd had them in the lab recently) seemed to be flocking toward the same location: the hall that led to the senior commons. Blaine smiled and bounced on his feet. The tweaks he'd made were actually working. As he made his way down the steps so he could join the group and finally start the performance, he realized he hadn't felt this full of anticipation in a long, long time. It felt good.

But as he made it to the bottom of the stairs, he was interrupted by a voice calling out to him. The strangest part was that it was a voice he'd never heard before. 

“Excuse me. Um, can I ask you a question? I’m new here,” a boy said, and Blaine turned to look upon him with nothing short of wonder.

He had no idea who the boy was. 

“My name’s Blaine,” he got out, remembering to smile, his mind racing as he tried to process what was happening. 

“Kurt. So what exactly’s going on?” the boy inquired, and Blaine found himself fixating on the notion that this boy was real. Somehow, he’d gotten onto Dalton grounds. Somehow, he’d found his way inside. And somehow, he just happened to find the only other real boy in this entire place. At that point, Blaine felt several, very different things, all at once. 

Delight, because this boy was wearing bermudas with boots and a blazer—he didn’t look like anybody else here.

Elation, because this boy could help Blaine test the Warblers today. Would he suspect anything about the others? Would he be able to tell?

Panic, because something could go very, very wrong. 

Excitement, because here was someone who looked to be his own age from some other school with, presumably, _actual people_ attending it.

Awe, because . . . this boy was _beautiful_.

His heart racing now, Blaine remembered Kurt had asked him what all the chaos around them was about. He quickly lied, “The Warblers. Every now and then they throw an impromptu performance in the senior commons. It tends to shut the school down for a little while.” 

“So wait. The glee club here is kind of cool?” Kurt asked.

Blaine was giddy and eager to have Kurt see the performance. “The Warblers are like rockstars," he lied again, wanting so much to impress the boy. "Come on. I know a shortcut.” Impulsively, Blaine took Kurt by the hand, partly so that he could remember what it felt like to touch someone, to feel skin (Kurt’s was smooth and warm and wow). Blaine was so distracted, in fact, that he missed the actual shortcut he'd meant to take and instead took Kurt down a longer corridor before arriving at the commons. As they ran, the other boy's awestruck expression made it seem as if he’d just stepped into a fairy tale, which confirmed for Blaine that this boy had never been here before. 

When they entered the commons, the Warblers were already waiting for Blaine, and many students had gathered around them. Blaine was thrumming with anxiety and tried hard not to show it. As he took his place with the rest of the group, he had only vague recollections of saying something to Kurt about his attire (he’d actually patted Kurt’s lapel), and then the Warblers started in with their “dun dun dun dun’s.”

Blaine found that in spite of what he'd planned for today's experiment, in spite of all the things he needed to observe, all he could actually focus on was Kurt. 

And performing for him was nothing short of exhilarating. 

Watching Kurt respond, the way his eyes seemed lit up due to their clever treatment of the song, the way nothing could hold back his smile was, for Blaine, as if he just found the very thing he needed in his life, the thing he was trying to escape Dalton to experience. At the same time it impressed him how much he needed it, how much his life was missing. And he didn't even know quite what "it" was. Just that it was important. Necessary for survival. 

When the song ended, and all the Warblers were excitedly patting Blaine on the back, he finally registered the energy that had exploded around the room. It actually distracted him, once he noticed it, because it felt so real. As fellow Warblers patted Blaine on the back, Blaine realized he'd never seen them so electric. When he remembered Kurt and turned to find him, though, to see what he'd thought, the boy was gone.

 _Teenage Dream_ , indeed. Blaine actually panicked for a moment, wondering if he'd imagined the whole thing since he'd put himself under so much stress that day. All those doubts were erased once Wes and David approached him, however. "So who was that kid watching you?" they asked. "He didn't seem like one of us."

"One of _you_ ," Blaine corrected, softly. “And I have no idea,” he added.

Later than night, as Blaine wandered the upper floors of the dormitories in the dim light cast by a few lamps, he was haunted by images of a boy, a boy with a clean voice and kind heart. 

And he wondered, as he gazed out the window past the darkness, where the glow of town lights far off in the distance reminded him of how alone he was, whether he would ever get to see him again.


	4. Friends and Foes

The warmth of the dining hall at midday, the clink of utensils against Dalton tableware, the soft murmuring of students in conversation all fell away from Blaine for a moment, the way everything does for people—when properly moved.  

Sitting across the table from Blaine, Wes and David, and fidgeting slightly as tears rolled down his cheek, was Kurt. When Blaine turned to his fellow Warblers and said, “Would you guys excuse us?” both students rose immediately, taking their coffees and smiling kindly at Kurt before leaving him to Blaine, who found himself thankful once again for his father’s programming skills.

It turned out that the only reason Blaine was even in this situation—the only reason he had this chance to see Kurt again so quickly—was thanks to Wes and David deducing the boy had been sent from McKinley High School’s glee club as a spy. And so Blaine had worked to get contact information for Kurt _Hummel_ (he’d learned), who he'd invited back. Of course Blaine had made sure the gates were left open that morning, all the while wondering how Kurt had even gotten past them the other day. Someday he hoped to ask, assuming there would _be_ a someday. 

But when the three Warblers had seated themselves across from Kurt, and the boy had begun by wondering if he could ask them a question, Blaine had panicked, thinking that Kurt knew, that Kurt was on to Dalton’s secret, that he was going to set in motion what Blaine feared. In a rush Blaine had imagined his father pulling the Warblers from the competition the moment he learned of it, leaving them with no opportunity to test themselves. Even more frightening, he’d imagined the consequences of outsiders learning the truth—surely, the entire Academy risked being dismantled. Because what did Blaine know about Kurt, anyway? Nothing. Asking him back here had been risky, possibly stupid. 

So when Kurt asked, “Are you guys all gay?” Blaine couldn’t have been more relieved.

That relief was soon followed by concern due to the expression on Kurt’s face and the emotion he was barely able to contain as he spoke. And so Blaine had asked Wes and David to leave just after the two Warblers finished describing the conditions at Dalton to Kurt, Wes adding confidently that “everyone gets treated the same, no matter what they are—pretty simple.” Blaine wanted to tuck that comment in his memory for later, too, because really, it may have been the first time he’d ever heard the students, especially first students like Wes and David, talk explicitly about this place and what it was like for them to live (to exist?) here. 

After Wes and David left, Blaine listened as Kurt told his story, and he realized how different this was, to not only have a living, breathing, boy to talk to—but one who was experiencing things he'd been through as well. In that moment, Blaine had never felt more like sharing—he could feel it right in his stomach, that flutter of nerves compelling him to reach out and connect. But what would he share? What could he? Should he? He blurted, "I ran, Kurt." 

And then he kept going, as if someone had flipped a switch. “I got taunted at my old school and it really—pissed me off. I even complained about it to the faculty, and they’re sympathetic and all but you could just tell: nobody really cared. It was like, ‘Hey, if you’re gay, you’re life’s just gonna be miserable. Sorry. Nothing we can do about it.’” As Blaine spoke he watched Kurt's reaction, the knowing look in his eye. He liked what that look did to him, the way he felt _understood_. 

He could’ve elaborated at that point, could’ve told how bad things got, how his parents—especially his father—had said he probably would have to “man up” and ignore it, that the situation would resolve itself. He could’ve told Kurt about the dance and how it put him in the hospital with broken bones and a concussion, or about his mother’s bewilderment as she tried to process what had happened. He could’ve reported the entire chain of events, because one piece linked cleanly to the next, and those pieces formed bonds that could never be broken or interchanged. Or replaced. And now those chains bound him and his father and Cooper up in ways he never would’ve imagined, left wounds that nobody dared even talk about. There was only occupation left. Staying occupied. Filling time. 

Blaine added instead, “. . . So I left. I came here. Simple as that.” Even though there was nothing simple about watching what had happened to his mother, or what had happened to any of them since. 

“So you have two options," he continued, sounding a lot more authoritative than he felt, thanks to the way Kurt seemed to be looking up to him at the moment. "I’d love to tell you to just enroll at Dalton but tuition here is sort of steep _(didn’t he know it)_ and that’s not an option for everyone ( _for anyone at all_ , _come to think of it)_ . . . Or, you can refuse to be the victim.”

Blaine felt stupid for saying that, for urging him to do the thing he hadn't been able to himself. He just wanted Kurt to _understand_. He was surprised to find himself admitting, “I ran, Kurt. I didn’t stand up. I let bullies chase me away, and it is something I really, really regret.” It felt good to let those words fall away from his lips; Blaine had never even said them out loud before. 

“Well, thank you,” Kurt replied, “for, you know, not hanging my underwear on the flagpole for being a spy or . . .” he stopped, suddenly looking embarrassed. He stood abruptly and collected his things. “I should really be going. I’m sure my fellow glee club members will want to know that I’m still alive.”

Blaine chuckled. Every word that came out of Kurt’s mouth was a gift because it was so unexpected. “Let me walk you around,” Blaine offered, not quite ready to say goodbye. “I mean—unless you really have to get back to your school?” 

 

In the fading warmth of the afternoon sun Blaine gave Kurt a tour of campus, suddenly cautious about where he walked the grounds, because while Blaine looked like a student at a prestigious boarding school, he didn’t always act like one. Nor was he treated like one by the others—at least not consistently, the longer he lived here. So Blaine showed him a few classrooms, the dining hall, and outside, some of the playing fields. All the while they talked, and Blaine found it easy to share things with Kurt. In fact it was _refreshing_ , to talk about being a student. It felt so utterly normal. 

“Don’t you have to be in class?” Kurt asked eventually, as they walked outside in the courtyard. “I mean, I guess technically I should be, too, but our glee club director wrote me a note to get me out—which clearly I'm more than willing to take advantage of. What’s your story?”

“Oh, well, I have a note too, of course—you know,” Blaine said, waving a hand in the air. “The Warblers are important around here, so it can be easy to get excused for, um, Warbler business.” Kurt’s raised eyebrow made Blaine blush, and he knew he sounded like a complete idiot. “Sorry,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “I’m just not used to talking to anyone not from here,” he offered lamely. 

“It’s fine,” Kurt replied, a gentle smile playing on his lips. “And for what it’s worth,” he added, leaning in, “I’m not used to talking to anyone from an expensive boarding school.” He looked at Blaine and said, “It’s really beautiful here—not like McKinley at all. I mean, even if someone wanted to toss you in a dumpster, it would be too much trouble to _find_ one.” Kurt laughed, and Blaine found himself rather clumsily gawking at him, because that laugh was so musical. Kurt must have misinterpreted Blaine’s expression because he quickly added, “Not that anyone would toss _you_ in a dumpster—you’re gorgeous!” Then shaking his head he added yet again, “I mean . . .”

“It’s okay, Kurt,” Blaine laughed back. “You’re right about the dumpsters. They _are_ hard to find.” Blaine purposely didn't add that some of the dumpsters would probably be shocking to see, especially the ones filled with limbs and torsos and skin, the ones that were never taken away by ordinary garbage trucks because what they contained would be considered Highly Classified. Come to think of it, there was a lot that Blaine would have to purposely _not_ add if he was going to keep on talking to Kurt. 

That very thought—that he could only selectively let Kurt into his life—kept returning to Blaine for the remainder of the day, long after he and Kurt said their farewells. Out in the clock tower that evening, leaning up against the belfry walls, Blaine tried to put the idea out of his mind and instead did nothing but scroll through his phone’s contacts again and again, which, in addition to his father and Cooper, now listed one Kurt Hummel. 

 

The days that followed led Blaine to a singular conclusion about himself: he really was an idiot, for several reasons, all of which made his heart sink.

He'd told Kurt to stand up to that bully, for one, and that had completely backfired. Of all the things that could've happened, he'd never expected that the bully would actually _kiss_ Kurt. 

Blaine had been working at the piano late in the day, busily writing an _a cappella_ arrangement he was thinking of for sectionals—a piece that made him smile because it captured some of what he could only describe as his _affinity_ for Kurt, a boy he still barely knew—when his phone buzzed, startling him. Hearing Kurt barely contain himself as he talked was harrowing for Blaine, who tried to remain calm while his new friend reeled from what had happened in the locker room just a short while ago.

"I don't understand," Kurt cried. "I confronted him. I _confronted_ him and now . . . What do I do now?"

Listening to Kurt relive his conversation with the bully—and that boy's subsequent assault on Kurt—made Blaine’s stomach churn. Already, he’d failed his friend. He’d failed as a _human being_. All his talk about fighting back, about having courage . . . What did he know about those things anyway, as he sat here in what was essentially a fortress? 

"I'm so sorry, Kurt," he offered humbly.

Now Kurt wanted Blaine to help him approach the boy, which was a logistical nightmare, because leaving Dalton—especially for this reason—would have to be done in secret. No, his father simply wouldn't understand. While it wasn’t that hard to arrange (it involved Blaine calling for a cab to meet him just up the road from the Dalton gates, and Blaine having to account to the cab driver for his uniform while standing on an empty road, and of course deal with stares from Dalton students as he let himself back in through the gates much later), the whole affair made Blaine feel more and more guilty. He wasn't trying to take advantage of what his father had done for him, but he couldn't help his own disappointment in himself from bubbling up now and again, that nagging feeling that he was a bad _person_. 

When the cab dropped him off at the curb just outside of Kurt's school, Blaine felt a little nervous. He had to admit he'd become used to a life with few surprises. At Dalton, routine ruled his world; he'd found comfort in the predictable. As he stood looking out at the school's own courtyard, he was sure the goosebumps covering his arms had nothing to do with the cool autumn air. It was the McKinley courtyard and students, which stood out in stark contrast to Dalton's. Between the wide range of clothing and color, the way people's voices sporadically rose well above the murmurs he was used to, and the _movement_ everywhere, which was much more chaotic as people bumped into each other (even him) as they went about their day, Blaine tried to simply remember to breathe. 

And his reaction to all of it embarrassed him. How could he not even handle being outside the confines of Dalton? It’s not like he never left. But he had to admit that visits home had been more frequent when his mother was . . . 

Well, now there was _only_ Dalton.

Blaine laughed nervously at himself as he stood and waited for Kurt to find him. For some reason he thought of Pavarotti, and how he acted on the rare occasion he escaped his metal cage. How eagerly he’d leap from Blaine’s finger back onto his perch, once Blaine recaptured him. The cage was comforting. 

At least his was. Here at McKinley, though, especially after he and Kurt ended up on a fenced-in stairwell, Blaine found himself woefully out of practice at dealing with unpredictable people. When the boys finally confronted the bully together, Blaine reasoned, “It seems like you might be a little confused, and that’s totally normal. This is a very hard thing to come to terms with, and you should just know that you’re not alone.” 

“Do. Not. Mess. With. Me,” was David Karofsky’s growled response, just before the much-larger boy slammed Blaine’s body against the chain-link fence. 

The weave of metal—the bumps that formed when steel zig met zag—pressed into Blaine’s back, reminding him only of his acute desire to be once again safely ensconced at Dalton. 

Still, Kurt needed him. 

Once the bully ran off after being reminded that he’d actually _kissed_ the person he supposedly hated, Blaine did his best to cheer up his new friend at Breadstix, where they now sat for lunch. Because that’s what they definitely _were_ now, he thought: friends. He stared across the table at Kurt, who was looking down at his drink and stabbing at ice cubes with his straw. Blaine smiled at that—it was something he did too, just a nervous tic. _Because he’s nervous and not just pretending to be human,_ Blaine thought, thinking again of Wes’s recent comments.

Kurt looked up at him then, a small smile forming on his lips. “So tell me something about your school. If there’s zero tolerance bullying, what do people do all day if they’re not slamming each other into fences?” 

Blaine laughed. “Well—uh. I guess it’s not all that exciting,” he stalled, trying to figure out how exactly to phrase things. “No one ever really fights at my school. We just, you know, go about our business, I guess?” Kurt was just staring back at him, and Blaine could feel his heartbeat quicken. Did he say something wrong? He couldn’t help it as more words spilled out of his mouth. “Everyone . . . just has their classes, you know? And um, other activities they do, and . . . But I’m kind of busy with the Warblers so I maybe don’t see everything? It’s kind of a big place,” he finished clumsily. 

With a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, Kurt replied, “Let’s just say there are plenty of things happening behind the bleachers and in empty classrooms at _my_ school that I am _thankful_ I’ve never seen, okay?” 

Blaine chuckled at that, and let himself feel happy about how things had finally turned out.

 

By the time Blaine got dropped off by the cab outside the Dalton gates later, his body was thrumming. _With_ _joy_. He marveled at the bond he’d formed with his new friend. Even though the situation with the bully greatly worried him, Blaine felt like he’d done some good. 

As he approached the gates, he spotted his father’s car through the metal bars. 

And just like that, those warm feelings evaporated. 

In his rush to get to Kurt, he’d failed utterly at preparing for every circumstance. His father was seated on a bench right inside the main hall, taking notes as usual in his Moleskine. Blaine closed the large entry door shut and noticed that his father wouldn’t even look up at him.

“Dad, I know what this looks like—” he started.

His father closed his notebook and sighed. “I thought I did too, when I found you weren’t here, Blaine. After talking to Edwards just now, though, it’s clear to me that you have a lot more explaining to do.”

 _Oh no,_ Blaine thought. His mind quickly cycled through several things that could be upsetting to his dad. There was Kurt, of course—a boy. A boy who was gay like him. He wasn’t sure how his dad would feel about his son sneaking out to spend time alone with a boy, even if they were just friends. He knew his father accepted him now, but that didn’t erase the memories of the bad advice Blaine had been given by him before he’d been beaten. Nor did it erase his father’s awkward attempts at forging a connection after he’d come out, attempts that often seemed less-than-genuine. He supposed if his father really didn’t accept he was gay at this point, that he’d find some other way of populating his son’s safe haven than with good-looking teenaged boys.

There was also the competition, if he understood his dad’s comment just now. There was leaving the confines of Dalton and heading out alone somewhere. And if he knew his father at all, it was the last one that would be the hardest for him to take.

His father began without him, running a hand through his hair before he spoke. “I know this isn’t an ideal situation, Blaine. You’re just a kid who’s been given a lot of responsibility, who’s had to . . . experience things kids shouldn’t have to experience. But look. You can’t just leave the campus like that. You can’t just—” His father drew in sharp breath, and Blaine could feel his own throat constrict with emotion at seeing his father struggling. 

“Dad,” he said, thickly. “I didn’t mean—”

“No one ever does,” his father replied quietly. Then he looked up at Blaine and smiled faintly. “Let’s grab some dinner, shall we?”

It turned out that Blaine’s father really didn’t know about the competition—inexplicably, Edwards had kept Blaine’s secret. He’d told the senior Anderson that someone had gotten through the gates. That was true, and in fact Blaine wondered if Edwards knew anything about Kurt at all. But the gates. That would’ve caught Edwards’ eye. Blaine simply took accountability for that, telling both his father and the headmaster at dinner that he was the one who’d messed with them, that he’d gone to spy on another glee club, just to get ideas for the Warblers’ practices. That hadn’t gone over too well, but it was better than any of the alternatives, and as Blaine explained to his father how it wasn’t enough to just watch other clubs on their _YouTube_ channels, he’d made eye contact with Edwards, whose face remained impassive. Blaine would have to talk to him later—it was curious to him that Edwards would . . . well what was it? Was he taking sides? It was _odd_.

 

But that planned conversation with the headmaster was quite easily forgotten, now that Blaine's father was placated (for the moment) and Blaine’s days included so much more _Kurt_ —which changed everything. It meant, for one, that he got a constant stream of texts, which was a new occurrence for him. He loved it, he loved the surprise of getting a text alert, he loved never knowing what Kurt was going to say.

_I take issue with Finn's notion of what "layering" consists of._

_Hint: it's not about picking the right plaid shirt to wear over a T._

_I insult my classmates in French and they have no idea._

_That's DURING French class, by the way._

_Which makes me especially sad._

_How's your day going?_

_Am I bothering you? You probably have actual homework to do, while my greatest challenge is trying not to die of boredom._

Another thing that changed for Blaine was that he had to leave Dalton a lot more, which he had mixed feelings about, especially after his recent conversation with his father. But whether he was seated next to Kurt and across from Mercedes at Breadstix, or spending time at the Lima Bean drinking far better coffee than what Dalton offered, Blaine was nevertheless pleased. 

In many ways he felt so _alive_. He even sat in on his classes more regularly, even if his mind wandered constantly back to Kurt. Blaine knew Mr. Pembrooke, the biology instructor, wasn’t going to bother him as he daydreamed and stared out the window.

"Survival is about adaptation," Mr. Pembrooke droned on. "In fact, Einstein himself once said, 'The measure of intelligence is the ability to change.' Being a repository of information doesn't help anyone survive," he said, leveling a glance at the students. "Being able to do things someone asks of you doesn't help you survive. It's your ability to do things differently, see things in a way no one else can. But those things you do differently have to be _effective_ , too. That's what I mean when I say survival is about adaptation."

Around the room, most students scribbled in their notebooks, and as they did one student in particular—named Sebastian—looked up from his writing to glance at the work of a Warbler seated next to him. He chuckled softly, most likely because the student, Thad, only looked to be taking notes: the scrawled handwriting was a loopy mess, just for show. Looking down at his own notebook Sebastian wrote simply and clearly, _Adaptation. Survival. Different._


	5. A Plan for Everything

Blaine continued to sneak off campus, _but was it really sneaking, anymore, if someone else knew you were doing it?_ He still hadn’t asked Edwards why he kept silent on the issue, but there was a knowing look in his eye on any occasion Blaine used the computer in the headmaster’s office. They never talked explicitly about Blaine’s trips to the Lima Bean to see Kurt. Instead Edwards had taken to asking simply, “Will you need a cab today, Sir?” and Blaine would answer, always gratefully, regardless of whether it was a yes or no. 

For a while Blaine was ecstatic. Between the Warbler’s more intense preparations for Sectionals, and visits with a very real, very lovely, very lovable Kurt (there were never enough “very’s” where Kurt was concerned), Blaine was soaring.

Until he wasn’t. 

When Kurt asked about the cost of tuition at Dalton one day during one of their Lima Bean meetings, Blaine nearly choked on his coffee. Why had it never occurred to him that Kurt might think Dalton was a way to _escape?_ A way to finally be free of David Karofsky? Most likely is was because in Blaine’s mind the terms “Dalton,” “escape” and “free” simply didn’t belong together. 

Blaine was still lost in thought as he heard Kurt finish, “. . . so he and Carol have this money they’d like to use from their honeymoon, and I hate the idea of it but it’s starting to look like the only option.”

Blaine stared down at his own drink, speechless. What could he even say? He felt slightly ashamed, really, because he should know better. His own mother had, that was for certain. What was it he’d overheard her saying to his father last fall, before she was gone? _“Everything has a breaking point—and every_ one. _You’re going to get so lost in this—you are already! I can see it, I can see where your thoughts are leading you! Don’t get so wrapped up in an idea that you lose us all.”_ Blaine wondered whether any of _his_ recent choices would send him down a path: of ruining his father’s work, of putting his own safety at risk. But he was certain that he needed Kurt in his life, there was no question, and Kurt needed him. _He_ was needed. So when he looked up to face an expectant Kurt, Blaine paused, then said simply, “You should do whatever you have to—so you can be safe.” Everything else, Blaine acquiesced, was just details. 

That night at Dalton after dinner, Blaine padded along the polished tile of the main floor en route to the upper dormitories and the lab. If Kurt was truly considering Dalton, there were _logistics_ to work out, and Blaine wondered whether he could really pull any of this off without his father’s knowledge. He entered the lab deep in thought, and immediately sat down to write. Mostly, he had questions. And concerns:

  * Who would Kurt’s dad even speak to about Dalton? (Edwards? What does Edwards need to  know?)
  * Would it be weird to charge tuition? Come up with a scholarship . . . for students who just happen to be exactly like Kurt :) 
  * Classes. I would have to go. (All the time . . . )
  * Programming Needs. Under no circumstances can Kurt know the truth. Some kind of silencing subroutine for students? There’s no way around it.
  * Kurt can’t live here. 



As he wrote the last bullet point, Blaine knew that probably, for financial reasons, Kurt would commute anyway. Even so, it was uncomfortable to see that list item in his own hand, or to see the rest of the list for that matter. It was all so _complicated_ , and his stomach knotted just thinking about it.

A squeak of the door caused Blaine to practically jump out of his chair. “Wes?” he asked automatically, because really, no one else he could think of would ever pop in unannounced, at this or any hour. Blaine turned to see the door pry open further, revealing a student. It took Blaine a moment to remember his name, as he wasn’t a Warbler. _Sebastian_ —that was it. 

“Hi, Sebastian,” said Blaine. “Can I, um, help you with something tonight before we all sort of . . . close down here?” He tried to remember the last time he’d talked to the boy. He was pretty sure they had History class together, but rarely interacted.

The other boy shifted his weight and put his hands in his pockets, then tilted his head and offered, “Look. I know I’m pretty new here and all compared to the others, but I really admire you, _Blaine._ ” Sebastian leaned forward and added, more quietly, “Anything I say here is just between you and me, right?”

“Sure,” Blaine practically whispered back. He shifted uncomfortably as he listened to Sebastian; he couldn’t shake the feeling that Sebastian had some sort of _agenda_. And Blaine wasn’t quite sure how that was possible. He tried to keep his composure as the boy continued. 

“Don’t get me wrong,” Sebastian started. “You know we all like it here.”

“We?” wondered Blaine, raising his eyebrows slightly. He quickly found himself cycling through any memories he had of seeing Sebastian. Were there others the boy interacted with regularly? Others he’d seen Sebastian with? Blaine couldn’t remember feeling flustered around a Dalton student, but the feeling was there regardless, as evidenced by the hair prickling on the back of Blaine’s neck.

“Oh, you know,” Sebastian said, as he started to walk slowly around the lab. “Your . . . fellow students,” he said, gesturing vaguely. But Blaine noted as Sebastian’s eyes settled on a corner of the lab—where an assortment of limbs and other parts were organized neatly into boxes. Without looking away from those boxes Sebastian continued, “You can make us do whatever you want—I get that.” Turning back toward Blaine he said, “And yet you choose to have us move like cattle through the halls. It’s not interesting. You have to admit, this place is sort of like an old folks’ home. Why don’t you live a little?”

“I live a lot,” said Blaine, caught off guard. “I live just fine.”

“Obviously,” said Sebastian, looking around the lab. “This is every teenager’s dream.”

“Wow. You just. You know,” Blaine countered, “Not that I need to defend myself to you, but most teenagers don’t have the responsibilities I’ve been given, or get to participate in a _really_ important project. For the government!” he added, pointing. “I can’t be reckless. I—” he stopped, glaring now at Sebastian. “Why does it even matter to you?” asked Blaine, indignantly, and then, more quietly, “Wait. What would you have me do, anyway?”

Sebastian just smiled back. 

“I could help with the Warblers,” Sebastian offered. “I see how much work that is, and besides, don’t you have some kind of competition thing coming up?”

Blaine was silent. “You want to . . . join the Warblers.” In all his time here, he’d never really seen any of the students go out of their way to _enroll_ in something. Immediately he wondered if there was some other phase of the Dalton Project that his dad hadn’t told him about. Why was Sebastian different?

Sebastian seemed to pick up on Blaine’s line of thinking as he said, “I know we don’t normally ask for things—not like this. But the reality is that you’re in over your head, I think. You _need_ the help. I’m sure I have some . . . unique skills that may be useful.”

Slightly flustered, Blaine gaped at Sebastian, who merely smiled back. The other boy’s eyes seemed to pierce Blaine, as if some layer of himself—some protective casing—was being peeled away. Exposed. “You’re so talented,” he said, still smiling. “I’ve actually seen you perform,” he nodded, “and if I were a _real_ boy . . .” He’d crept closer as he spoke, then laughed and said, “Well, I guess then I’d get to see you perform in other contexts.”

Blaine just blinked. Then blinked again.

And so with Blaine speechless on the matter, Sebastian became the first Dalton student to actually _join_ the Warblers. 

 

The days that followed were full of chaos. Kurt was peppering Blaine with questions about Dalton (he found the website, he’d said, but there didn’t seem to be any way of contacting anyone directly), and Blaine was just about losing his mind determining how to protect the project’s secrets as well as his own. The guilt he already felt became more acute whenever his mind wandered, and on top of that he hadn’t counted on the reaction Sebastian’s introduction to the Warblers would receive.

It was as if the other Warblers were _offended._

Part of the problem was that Sebastian was actually very, very good—which made no sense to Blaine, given that the Warblers were specifically programmed to _be_ Warblers. 

At the meeting in question, Blaine had brought Sebastian along and then announced simply, “Sebastian is a new Warbler, guys.” And then he’d paused at the murmuring that spread instantly around the room.

“Is that—okay?” Blaine asked, surprised. “You guys usually like my contributions.”

“Of course it’s fine,” Wes said, raising an eyebrow. “But why not let him audition anyway?”

“Audition.” Blaine glanced over at Sebastian, who seemed amused by the formality of the proceedings, then said, seeing as nothing today was going to be predictable, “Sure, why not?” 

And then Sebastian led the group in singing a number they’d done before, leaving Blaine to wonder how, exactly, Sebastian was so familiar with the arrangement, the phrasing, the _everything_. As he listened, Blaine found himself dwelling on the lyrics he was used to singing himself. How different they seemed in another’s voice:

> _Sometimes these cuts are so much deeper than they seem,_
> 
> _You’d rather cover up; I’d rather let them bleed._
> 
> _So let me be, and I’ll set you free._

As he continued to watch what was a polished performance, Blaine had the same feeling he’d had the other night in the lab: the feeling that Sebastian could peer inside him somehow. It was disconcerting, and Blaine thought at least now he could keep an eye on the other boy—a boy, he had to admit, who was sort of handsome. For a machine.

The rest of the Warblers seemed to like the audition; that the performance ended up with Jeff, Nick and Thad in the center of the group doing their individual versions of an axel seemed to indicate they’d accepted Sebastian. As for the newest Warbler, Blaine watched with some astonishment as he stepped to the center and performed an axel too, easily besting the others in the height of the jump and, Blaine conceded, in the _grace_ with which he executed it. 

As the Warblers left the commons afterwards, Blaine spied the headmaster lingering outside the door. _Great,_ thought Blaine. _More surprises._ But truth be told, he needed to talk to Edwards if Kurt was ever going to find safety here. So he headed straight for the headmaster, who said, “Care to take a walk back to my office, young man?” Blaine nodded and they walked together down the now-silent hall.

They walked quietly together, Blaine lost in his own questions about Edwards himself, from what the headmaster wanted right at this moment to why he’d been essentially an accomplice to Blaine’s multiple transgressions in order to spend time with Kurt. And then there was the sectionals competition, which was only weeks away now. Why had Edwards not told his father about that?

The headmaster held the office door open for Blaine, who entered and took a seat opposite the desk. Edwards followed and sat at the computer. Clicking the mouse, he seemed to locate something, then said to Blaine, “Care to tell me why we’ve received an inquiry from Mr. Kurt Hummel regarding admission to the school?”

Blaine shifted in his seat, confused. “He what?” That Kurt was _interested_ wasn’t surprising. That he found a way to contact Dalton itself _was_.

“He submitted a message to the school’s e-mail account—which, as you know, isn’t publicized. Anywhere.” 

“I didn’t give it to him!” 

“I’m not accusing, Sir. The account itself, I imagine, would be easy to guess: _admissions@daltonacademy.edu_. It’s a dummy account, but what I’m more concerned with at the present moment is how to handle the inquiry.” Edwards surveyed Blaine, then waited for his response.

Blaine sighed, and looked down at his shoes, unsure of what to do. A moment later he found himself blurting out, “Why didn’t you tell my dad about the competition?” When he lifted his head to meet Edwards’ gaze, he found a sympathetic expression on his face. 

The headmaster set his elbows atop the desk and clasped his hands. “Well,” he started, “that’s a rather complex question.” He continued, clearing his throat. “I’ve known you for some time, now, _Blaine,_ ” he said, rather awkwardly, causing Blaine to smile. “It’s my job to protect you. But I can also surmise the extent to which your needs might not be met here. Is it also my job to report to your father? Somewhat. You are _also_ in charge. So my position . . . is conflicted to a degree, which I’m sure you can appreciate. But I’ve obviously been supporting your efforts with the competition. And with your friend—yes, I do know about him, or have been able to guess the details enough. My stance at this point is to comply with _your_ wishes, because that is the hierarchy here. It’s also to let your father deal with you himself _,_ if and when he finds out what you’re doing. His knowledge of your plans is, the way I see it, your responsibility.”

“So your job is to protect _me_ over the Project? I was kind of surprised when you started helping me actually leave campus in order to visit Kurt.”

“I think, Sir, that you would have probably found a way to leave campus with or without my knowledge. I would rather it happened _with.”_

Blaine sat back and thought, then readied himself to ask even more of Edwards, although maybe, actually, this new plan would be safer. “So—Kurt wants to go to school here. His _life_ has been threatened by another student. Having him here would mean I’d be leaving a little less often . . . which would be better, right?” He eyed the headmaster hopefully.

Edwards rubbed his forehead, then brought the hand down to rest his chin on it. “How would that work, exactly?”

Blaine smiled and pulled out his notebook. Everything, he thought, was going to be fine.


	6. Competition

With Kurt decided on Dalton and Edwards’ show of support, Blaine launched himself into his work with even more passion. Thank goodness Kurt wasn’t planning to board here—there would still be the safety of after-school hours, where the facades could drop. But there was a lot accomplish in the meantime so that as long as Kurt was here, Dalton would seem as real as any other school. And while most of the preparations including programming of one sort or another, like reusing some code from the “impromptu” performance from a while ago to nudge students to congregate a little more often (or in less _routine_ ways) in the common areas of the school, some of the details that needed attention were more ordinary. Installing a lock on the laboratory door. Hiding some of the more Classified trash. Making sure the gates were open at certain hours of the day. To Blaine, the process of securing Dalton’s secrets from the inside was a bit like spinning a sturdy yet oh-so-delicate web, one whose anchors could detach if the wind were strong enough—thus collapsing the structure.

Even more awkward was Blaine’s realization, at the first Warbler’s meeting with Kurt finally in attendance, that it wasn’t Dalton that would have trouble seeming ordinary. 

It was Kurt.

On his first day at the new school, Kurt looked surprisingly at ease. And _happy_. And dapper, Blaine thought, in his new Dalton blazer and tie. Blaine knew that no matter what happened, he’d made the right choice to bring him here. Now Kurt would be safe, too. 

As for the Warblers, who were not surprised to learn that Kurt would join the group, well, their response to Kurt’s arrival was very . . . uniform. They clapped to welcome him. They sat quietly as Blaine told the tale of Pavarotti. And as Wes spoke to Kurt about taking care of the bird, Blaine mouthed along, from his spot near the couch, the words he and Wes had decided on together the night before: “It’s your job to take care of him, so he can live to carry the Warbler legacy. Protect him. That bird is your voice.”

And then Kurt was _Kurt_ , and Blaine laughed as his heart bloomed all over again, even as he watched the Warblers’ deadpan reaction to Kurt’s quip about working at a stray cat rescue . . . at the bottom of a coal mine. Even Sebastian was silent.

“Er, that was a joke,” Kurt stammered at their lack of emotion. “I don’t work at a coal mine.”

Blaine’s good humor turned to worry, though, once Kurt started sharing some of his ideas for sectionals. After he’d suggested that the set list for competition “should have a little more showbiz panache,” Wes had responded (sort of coldly, Blaine thought) with a comment about how Kurt’s enthusiasm would “come in handy one day” when _he_ was sitting behind Wes’s desk.

All Blaine could do was take out his notebook and start making lists. For while he’d planned endlessly to make Dalton as real as he could for Kurt, he’d forgotten to consider how Kurt would _interact_ with Dalton. And if Kurt’s experiences with the school and its inhabitants didn’t feel right, or didn’t make Kurt feel welcome, then everything would fall to pieces, Blaine thought. Or at the very least, everything involving Kurt. Which in Blaine’s view, was more or less the same thing. 

 

With Kurt’s happiness foremost on his mind, Blaine skipped his last class (actually, his last few classes) that day so he could be sure to catch his friend before he left for Lima.  

“Kurt!” he called out, as he spotted him about to descend the atrium stairs.

“Hey,” Kurt said, a little unenthusiastically.

“Walk with me?” asked Blaine.

“Sure,” Kurt smiled, as they took the steps together.

“I’m sorry your ideas got shot down like that today,” Blaine began. 

“Oh, it’s fine,” was Kurt’s quick response. “It’s just a different energy in there—something I’ll have to get used to, that’s all.” 

“It’s been a long time since they’ve had anybody new—well, there’s Sebastian. And actually, they made him audition and everything.”

“Really?” Kurt said. “I wonder why they didn’t ask me, too?” 

Blaine held the door open for Kurt as both boys stepped outside into the late-autumn air. As they walked, Blaine commented, “I think maybe they just trusted my judgment?” The reality was simpler, Blaine knew: having one more actual human on the team would be good for them at sectionals. And besides, Blaine felt that something had shifted in Wes, once Sebastian had been accepted. Wes making Sebastian audition—and therefore pushing back against Blaine’s wishes—had seemed to satisfy something in the Warbler, but Blaine didn’t know what to make of it. Kurt stopped just then, and Blaine realized he’d missed the first part of his sentence.

“—being on a new team is a fresh start for me, and it would feel good to actually get a solo. At my old school it always felt like Mr. Schue was expecting Armageddon if Rachel didn’t get _all_ the solos.”

Blaine tilted his head and smiled, and he felt in that moment that he would do anything for Kurt. Reaching out and grasping Kurt’s elbow he said impulsively, “Well, it just so happens that we Warblers have a tradition of rewarding a student with a good attitude,” he lied, “so we’d like to invite you to audition for a solo!” 

He felt his heart warm as Kurt broke into a wide, hopeful grin. 

 

As for the audition itself, things didn’t exactly go as Blaine expected. 

Wes and Blaine agreed beforehand that Nick and Jeff would be Kurt’s “competition.” Both boys picked and practiced songs from the sheet music Blaine had presented them with some time ago, when he’d worked on individualizing their musical tastes at Wes’s behest. Wes and David both were insistent that the competition not have a predetermined result, but Blaine was so confident in Kurt’s abilities, even though he’d never actually heard him sing (he was _human_ after all, and he was an experienced member of a glee club also comprised of humans), that he didn’t give the outcome a second thought.

He was, of course, wrong not to think things through.

The day of the audition both Nick and Jeff performed capably; Blaine, in fact, was proud at how well they did on their own, as separate from the team. But when Kurt belted out the first notes of _Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina,_ Blaine was immediately and powerfully drawn to Kurt’s voice. It’s clarity. It’s crispness. It’s range. As his eyes followed Kurt’s movements, everything else in the room seemed to fade away. And even though the song was probably completely wrong for the Warblers, in his opinion, Blaine was nonetheless struck by the words:

> _I had to let it happen, I had to change_
> 
> _Couldn’t stay all my life down at heel_
> 
> _Looking out the window, staying out of the sun._
> 
> _So I chose freedom . . ._

Blaine found himself fighting back tears suddenly, at Kurt’s voice wrapping around the impassioned lyrics. It hit him again how different Kurt was, but maybe what hit him more, right at that moment, was the way Kurt could _vocalize_ those feelings about escape. It was the thing Blaine tried to veer his own thoughts away from. As he fought to gain control of his emotions, a quick glance around the room told Blaine the others weren’t registering what he was: they couldn’t see or feel what he saw in the other boy. 

Which was pretty much what they said once Kurt left the room. Blaine noted that Sebastian was the most vocal.

“I know Blaine wants to prop up his new boy toy,” Sebastian said. “But I thought the goal—the _mission_ , if that helps you better—is to win sectionals. This guy? And _Evita?_ We’re not going to win with show tunes. That’s not,” he paused for emphasis, “the Warbler Way.”

The rest of the group murmured and shared quick glances with each other. Blaine was seated on the armrest of the sofa, mentally disconnected from the rest of the group. _Boy toy?_ he thought. Wes’s gavel hitting the desk top brought him back to the meeting.

Making eye contact with Blaine, Wes said carefully, “While it would be nice to give our newest member the spotlight, perhaps it would make sense to let him learn to be part of the team first? I think we’re all in agreement here.” 

“Sure,” Blaine said softly, crestfallen. He found himself having to explain to Kurt afterwards how he’d “fit in soon enough,” all the while wondering about the new dynamics that seemed to be forming on the team. 

 

When the morning of the sectional competition finally arrived, Blaine was a tangled mass of nerves. Thinking back to the day he’d registered the group for this opportunity, Blaine realized that most of the concerns he’d dwelled on had faded away. In fact the group’s performance—not just as a show choir but as “humans”—had steadily improved. Aside from one practice where, after Blaine had demonstrated a more-complicated set of moves and the entire team (except Kurt) had replicated it immediately, _identically_ , causing Kurt to wonder at their abilities, no red flags had been raised. And Sebastian, for his part, had been helpful in Blaine’s opinion. He seemed to keep the group focused on winning, and Blaine often felt, as he saw Sebastian tweak a Warbler’s choreography, that the boy was determined if not obsessed with the idea of it.

On the bus ride to the hosting school, Kurt seemed both nervous and subdued.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Blaine said, sitting next to him. “You okay?”

Kurt nodded and seemed to force a smile. “Of course,” he said. “It’s just going to be strange today, I guess, seeing my old friends perform without me.” 

“Well,” said Blaine, smiling back and nudging Kurt’s shoulder with his own, “maybe it won’t seem that strange when we go up on the stage to claim that 1st Place trophy.”

“You’re right,” Kurt replied. “That would make everything just about perfect.” Then, craning his neck toward the front of the bus he added, changing the subject, “It’s sure weird, though, that the headmaster’s riding with us, don’t you think? If Principal Figgins ever did that, I think I’d die.”

Blaine laughed. “Oh, Headmaster Edwards isn’t so bad,” he said. “I’m kind of glad, actually, that he’s here—you know, since we’re not used to having a faculty supervisor or anything.” Truth be told, Blaine was grateful that Edwards insisted on going. Surprised, but grateful; knowing Edwards would be around if anything out of the ordinary happened was very comforting. _If we could just make it through today with no surprises,_ Blaine thought. 

The bus pulled up to the curb of the hosting school to let everyone out, and as Kurt and Blaine waited for those seated in front of them to depart, Kurt pressed his hands up against the window and said, “There they are!”

Walking a distance away from the Warblers’ bus was, apparently, the New Directions. Over their arms they carried garment bags, except for one boy in a wheelchair, who carried the garment bag in his lap while another student, a girl, pushed him. Toward the back of the group Blaine spied Mercedes, the one friend of Kurt’s he’d actually met. Strangely, no one seemed to be laughing or even smiling. A cute blonde boy stole glances at the blonde girl he was walking with, and a shorter girl with long dark hair walked with her arms crossed in front of her while looking down at the ground.

“Are you sure that’s them?” asked Blaine. “They don’t seem very excited to be here.”

“Well,” began Kurt, a confused look on his face. “They don’t really tell me anything anymore because we’re competing, but before my solo audition I’d talked to Rachel—she’s that one,” he said, pointing. “The only thing I know is that she has no solos this time, which is really odd. But, you know, that’s the New Directions for you. There’s constant in-fighting and everyone’s dating each other. It’s basically a soap opera. It’s _The Worst Days of Our Lives,”_ he deadpanned. 

“Huh,” said Blaine, trying to imagine what it would be like to be part of that brand of chaos.  

They exited the bus and gathered with the rest of the group on the curb. Edwards looked at them all and said, “Ready, then?” And the group—with nothing to carry since they were already dressed in their Dalton uniforms—walked quietly and orderly into the school. 

 

Inside, the teams were directed to their individual rehearsal spaces, and as the Warblers walked silently to their own room, they passed by the others’. The Hipsters were busy doing warmups, and behind the door after that Blaine could hear bickering coming from the New Directions. As they continued down the corridor Sebastian purred in his ear saying, “I know I should probably be sorry for them, but I’m not.” 

Blaine turned to look at the boy. _“Sebastian,”_ he said. “That’s kind of rude. Don’t you want the satisfaction of knowing we won when our competition is at its best?” 

Sebastian smirked. “Satisfaction? Winning isn’t about satisfaction. Winning allows you to keep winning. It allows you to . . . obtain things. To do _more._ To evolve. If they’re not fit to win this thing, then what do I care?” he said. 

“You should care,” said Blaine, quietly, wishing he could program the boy to have _some_ kind of empathy. _Was that it?_ he thought. _Was that what was different about him?_ The others could certainly read people’s emotions—Blaine had seen Edwards do that to _him_ often enough in recent days. Sebastian clearly could read others, too. But there was something different about how he _used_ that knowledge, Blaine thought, then refocused himself on the task at hand as they entered the rehearsal room.

Blaine had the group go through warm up exercises, for Kurt’s and his benefit more than for the others’, since they didn’t really need to prepare. Afterwards, they lingered in the room, not quite sure what to do with themselves when Kurt asked, “Do you guys not form a circle before competing? Do a pep talk? Um . . . tell a few jokes to lighten the mood? Anything?” He looked around the room, but the Warblers’ faces were all blank. “O- _kay,”_ he said.

“Well,” Blaine interjected. “This is actually our first competition, Kurt, so yeah, maybe we should do . . . something.” He looked at Edwards then, who nodded at Blaine, stepped forward and said rather awkwardly, “Gather around, young men. Let's have a pep talk.” 

The Warblers formed a circle and swapped uncertain glances. Blaine watched Kurt, who looked expectantly at the headmaster.

Edwards cleared his throat.

“Warblers, today is a day to be _proud_ of Dalton Academy,” Edwards started, turning to meet Blaine’s gaze. “To be here is a special thing. To be here in the world, among others, is a _special_ thing. Regardless of the outcome, know that you’ve applied yourselves. You are . . . unique, and now we’ll see the effect you have on others.”

It was quiet in the room, except for Kurt, who leaned in close to Blaine and muttered, “He’s really a serious guy, isn’t he?” Blaine smiled and nodded back. Actually, Blaine was sure he’d never heard Edwards be so utterly _emotional_. 

 

When Blaine finally stood on the stage with the Warblers and the curtain went up, he felt transported back to junior high, to the last time he got to perform in front of a truly live audience, and the electricity he felt running through his body at that was worth all of the work it had taken to get the group onto the stage in the first place. And the song he’d picked, the arrangement he’d crafted, all of it seemed perfect and fitting with Kurt at his side:

> _I knew when we collided_
> 
> _You’re the one I have decided_
> 
> _Is one of my kind . . ._
> 
> _I can be myself now finally, in fact there’s nothing I can’t be._

The only surprise, it turned out, was that the Warblers wouldn’t achieve a clear win. Instead, they would share a trophy with the New Directions of McKinley, who put together a great performance of their own that surprisingly, wasn’t chaotic at all. In spite of whatever had happened behind the scenes, the group seemed to pull together and showcase the talent of their individual members (like that cute blonde boy whose name Blaine didn’t know).  

The tie didn’t take away from Blaine’s feeling of accomplishment. Seeing the trophy, the trophy he and the Warblers had won, made Blaine’s heart swell. That he got to share the moment with Kurt made it all the more satisfying. As his own teammates cheered for themselves, Blaine peered across the stage at the New Directions, Kurt’s old friends, with great curiosity. 

What Blaine didn’t notice was the way Sebastian wore a similar expression, directed right at _him_. Or how Wes noticed, or how a frown formed on Wes’s face as he looked back and forth between the two.


	7. Impressionable Youth

Since the sectionals tie Blaine felt increasingly as if he were at war with himself. There were two Blaine’s. The one who lived at Dalton, who did what he was told, who controlled the details of his life and found comfort in that—and the one who lived a sort-of secret life beyond the confines of the school. He was confused by both of them, and as he sat on a cold bench outside the Gap with Kurt at his side, he found himself frustrated. Because the sort-of secret Blaine? He did a lot of really _stupid_ things. 

Take Jeremiah, for instance.

A short while ago, before Kurt actually transferred to Dalton, Blaine had run into a nearby Gap just to get out of a downpour after one of his clandestine trips to and from the Lima Bean. Working there was a boy—a much older boy—who seemed to take an interest in him. Well, he’d offered a paper towel so he could dry himself off, and that led to a conversation, which led to the boys exchanging phone numbers. It had been flattering.

How could he be so wrong? So utterly, ridiculously _wrong?_

They’d had coffee together, and talked music (Jeremiah was a Robin Thicke fan) and football. The older boy showed an interest in Blaine’s situation—he was curious about prep school, he laughed at Blaine’s stories, he seemed to admire Blaine’s position as lead singer of the Warblers, even if he’d never even heard of them. All the while Blaine had wondered, _how can you tell? How can you tell if someone is_ into _you?_ And he thought he saw something in Jeremiah’s eyes, in the way he ducked his head as they sat near the window while cars pushed through slushy streets outside. It seemed written all over his face. 

That he’d misread the message never occurred to him. 

Equally frustrating, as he sat on the bench and sulked, with Kurt silent and supportive beside him, was that he’d gone through with actually serenading Jeremiah. In the middle of the store. With the entire group of Warblers in tow. The Warblers still rarely questioned anything he did, and on this occasion, neither did Kurt. “Man up,” he’d said to Blaine, who’d felt nervous about the whole idea once he was actually standing there among the racks of clothes. Thankfully nothing strange happened as far as the Warblers were concerned, other then a group of them led by Thad eyeing the Baby Gap onesies with more curiosity than what would be considered normal for a bunch of teenaged boys. But what _Blaine_ did was worse (he rubbed his face in embarrassment just recalling how he’d actually slid across the floor on his knees), because now Jeremiah had lost his job. And Blaine wondered how much any of his decisions lately were going to come back and haunt him, or worse, cause damage to people he cared about. 

The ride back to Dalton was a quiet one. Humiliating, actually, because the only way to transport everyone was with the bus Edwards had arranged (after giving Blaine the first side-eye he’d ever seen the headmaster produce). Blaine sat near the front of the bus and sulked, his forehead pressed against the cold window. Then he felt Kurt bump his knee against his own, then a shoulder, then a knee again, until Blaine finally looked up, half-smiling.

“I know you think what you did today was pretty silly,” he started, “but can I be perfectly honest with you about something?”

“Sure,” Blaine said, wishing with a pang of guilt that he could return the favor. “Of _course_.”

“I feel foolish too,” Kurt admitted, then paused for a moment as he seemed to gather himself. “When you said you were going to serenade a boy you liked . . . I thought that boy was _me_.”

“Oh,” Blaine said. Then, _“Oh,”_ as he processed what Kurt meant. “Wow, I really am clueless,” he mumbled, thinking about how he’d inadvertently led Kurt on. “You know, I’ve never had a boyfriend,” he found himself admitting. “And I think we can all agree, after today, that I’m terrible at romance.” 

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” said Kurt softly, nudging him again gently with his elbow. 

But Blaine couldn’t help it. His lame attempt at connection, at actually sharing his feelings caused someone to lose his job. And if Kurt had expected Blaine to serenade _him,_ and if he actually _had,_ then what disaster would happen there? In a flash he pictured Kurt leaving him behind at Dalton, and just as quickly he realized how devastated he would be to lose the person who had become his best friend. His lifeline. So he looked up at Kurt, whose expression seemed sympathetic, and said, “ _Kurt,_ let me be really clear about something. I really, really care about you. I don’t want to screw this up,” he said, gesturing back and forth between them with his hand. 

“So it will be like _When Harry Met Sally,”_ Kurt said, smiling rather coyly. “But I get to play Meg Ryan.”

“Deal,” Blaine said, before doing a double-take. “Don’t they get together in the end?” 

Kurt merely smiled, then looked out the window as the bus approached the Dalton gates.  

 

Once they got back to campus and off the bus, Blaine let the Warblers file ahead of him into the main building. He lingered, and Kurt followed suit with a curious expression on his face. 

“Can I show you something?” asked Blaine, tentatively, looking sideways at Kurt.

Just as hesitantly Kurt responded, “Yes?” 

It was cold and daylight was quickly fading. But Blaine was still feeling wounded by the day’s events, and he knew he’d feel better if he could go where he usually did—the clock tower—but it meant trusting Kurt. It meant letting him in, as much as he could, without letting him in too much. It was getting so very _complicated_ , all of it. So Blaine looked at Kurt and said, “Great,” and then led him out across the grounds. 

They walked in silence for what seemed like forever, Blaine not knowing what exactly to say, because it felt like, after today, there was something different between them, like something had opened up inside Blaine and revealed itself to Kurt—and it felt the same in the other direction. He felt closer to Kurt right now than he’d felt to anyone in a long time, if not ever.    

When they arrived at the tower, they halted at its base. Blaine looked at Kurt, who merely raised an eyebrow and shrugged as if to say, “This is it?” Then Blaine took out his key and unlocked the door. Taking in Kurt’s perplexed look at his having a key at all, Blaine said merely, “Uh, someone I know who has access to . . . things . . . was able to make this for me as a favor. I’m—he and I are the only ones who have a key.” Kurt nodded, and then Blaine pushed the door open so both boys could finally get out of the bitter wind.

“Um,” said Kurt, gesturing with his arm. “After _you_ ,” he said.

“Okay,” said Blaine, leading the way up the stairs. 

The clock tower in winter was always tranquil, especially on an evening like this with a light layer of fresh snow on the ground. Even in the waning light, the snow made everything bright enough to see for a good distance around the school grounds. The boys walked about trying to find the best place to stand—a place where the wind didn’t whip at their faces. 

“So,” Kurt ventured, smiling, “You come here often?” 

Blaine glanced at his feet, grinning too. “Yeah, actually,” he said. “I spend more time up here then I care to admit.” He laughed, then said more quietly, “Sometimes I need to just be somewhere where others can’t get to me.” And then he took a breath, because he couldn’t believe he just admitted that. A quick glance at Kurt’s face told him that it was okay that he did, because Kurt was looking back at him fondly, and with what Blaine could only guess was mild concern, given what he’d said.

Kurt looked out beyond the playing fields, toward Lima in the distance. Without looking directly at Blaine he asked, “You _do_ have a private dorm room here, though. It’s not enough?”

Blaine swallowed and replied, “No, not always.” Then he sighed. “Plus I like the view. It—” and then he was quiet for a moment as he readied himself, his heart leaping suddenly. “It reminds me, I guess, of stories my mom used to tell me when I was a kid.”

“Oh?” said Kurt, his eyes fixed where they were before, beyond.

Blaine wrapped his arms around himself and curled into the corner. “Yeah, you know. Princesses locked in towers and knights coming to the rescue, that sort of thing.”

Kurt smiled and said, “Well, now I’m imagining you as the most adorable kid knight—I bet you used to run around the yard with a sword and shield.”

“Of course,” said Blaine, smiling. “But sometimes that was my brother, and _I_ was the damsel.” 

Kurt laughed. “Aw . . . so cute.” Then he looked at Blaine more somberly. “I know I’ve already told you a little about my own mother,” he began, “but do you want to talk about yours?”

Blaine paused for a moment. His eyes grew wide as he said, “Oh, she’s not. She’s not _dead,”_ he said quietly. “She just . . .” he trailed off, not sure what he could say about her. Could he tell Kurt that she’d worked with his father? That she’d complemented her husband in so many ways? Could he tell him that after Blaine was in the hospital, with broken bones and a concussion, that she and his father had fought bitterly over what to do, over how to protect him? Or how she’d been against the Dalton Project from the start? Meeting Kurt’s gaze, Blaine decided to tell whatever truths he could. “She left my father last year. None of us even understand it, really. She just disappeared. We don’t know where she is, even . . .” Blaine said, looking out into the wintry night. “Sometimes I think about finding her,” he said, shrugging. “But I’m kind of stuck here at the moment. So I busy myself with other things.”

Kurt plopped down next to Blaine. “You would think it would be easy to find someone. There would be traces online, a mention of her name, _something,”_ he offered. “I can help if you—“

“It’s more complicated than that,” Blaine replied firmly. “Sorry, but she is—she was—very good at covering her tracks. I know it sounds weird, but trust me. If she doesn’t want to be found, we won’t find her.” Blaine stood up suddenly, the day’s events taking their toll on him. “We should probably head back,” he said.  

He held out a hand to Kurt, which the other boy accepted, then helped him to his feet. Blaine must have tugged a little too firmly, though, because Kurt lost his balance on the way up and crashed right into him. The force of it pushed an “Oof” out of Blaine, who quickly reached out to steady them both, getting an armful of Kurt—of wool and warmth—in the process. “Sorry,” Kurt said, sort of nervously, as the boys untangled themselves, and then they took the stairs down so Kurt could make the drive home.

 

Blaine had trouble sleeping that night, with the embarrassment over Jeremiah still stinging, and with Blaine’s thoughts drifting to Kurt (and his panic earlier at the prospect of losing him) and to his mother. After wasting time tossing and turning in bed, he finally got up and went to the lab, where he pulled out a manila envelope he’d tucked in the back of a file cabinet. 

The truth was, he didn’t understand what had happened to his mother, and as the months wore on after her sudden departure, Blaine and his father had been wrapped up in the minutiae of Dalton; their structured days, full of designing and tinkering, had been a comfort to them in her absence. He opened the envelope and spread its contents on the table. Sadly, there were few items of significance, because of the secret nature of his parents’ work: a short blurb from a conspiracy-theory website about her no longer being considered an employee at her company. Another article he’d found from a newspaper’s online archives, profiling his mother back when she was more artist than top-secret cyborg designer. In the accompanying photo she stood next to one of her sculptures—a human torso, its spine curving gracefully. A tiny scrap of note paper with some unattributed quotation scrawled in her handwriting, next to some code he couldn’t decipher:

_When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves._

And the last thing, a photograph, one he’d kept in his dorm room here but had removed before Kurt transferred. It was an image of his parents and Cooper from a long time ago, back when his older brother was just a 9-year-old kid. In the picture everyone was smiling, their arms intertwined, while Cooper, inexplicably, held the metal frame of a leg at his side like it was some kind of toy. He’d removed the photo from his room here because he didn’t want Kurt to ask too many questions, but Blaine had always liked how happy everyone looked, how eager, back when possibilities probably seemed endless to them, before Blaine and his accompanying problems took so many of those paths away. 

He finally nodded off at the table where he sat, his upper body sprawled atop the artifacts he’d collected, his fitful sleep full of uneasy dreams where shards of glass seemed to fall from the sky like stars.


	8. Kangaroo Court

In the weeks that followed Blaine tried to keep his sort-of secret life in check, which meant staying on campus, which meant hearing a very disappointed Kurt sigh on the phone late one winter night. 

“But you already turned me down for my old high school’s football game,” Kurt said. “You’re going to make me go to Rachel’s party _alone?_ You realize how many couples I’ll have to watch make out all night?” Kurt’s disappointment emanated through the phone. 

“So don’t go,” said Blaine. “Stay here. With me.” It was a bit risky to invite Kurt to campus on a Saturday evening, but if they stayed in his room or even wandered the common areas, Blaine felt he could easily explain away the lack of students—or noise. _Okay,_ he thought, _so_ _maybe he’d have to do some extra programming . . ._

But Kurt seemed to ignore the suggestion for the moment. “I was really hoping to introduce you—that means show you _off_ by the way—to more of my friends, that’s all. Besides, it feels like we never _go_ places anymore. Not that we’ve really been anywhere other than the Lima Bean or Breadstix. Or,” Kurt said, clearing his throat, “The Gap.”   

Blaine felt a slight twist in his gut at the reference. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I really am—I would love to be able to go. I just can’t see how,” he said. He could go of course, couldn’t he? Edwards would surely call him a cab (Well, he might raise a bit of an objection in this case). What was he afraid of exactly? 

Maybe he was nervous about meeting too many people, especially after botching the thing with Jeremiah so spectacularly, or being blindsided at the way he’d missed Kurt’s experience of that debacle. He would’ve met Kurt’s dad at that football game—a man he was kind of curious about after hearing Kurt describe him so often. And here would be a roomful of real people to interact with, all of whom respected Kurt. Why not just go? In the end he sighed, having lost his nerve, and merely asked Kurt to reconsider his invitation to hang out at Dalton. 

“I’m pretty sure my dad wouldn’t let me drive to and from campus late at night,” Kurt replied. “And honestly? I hardly spend time with my old friends now. Even though I totally predict Santana will see my bitchface at least _once_ during the night, I was kind of looking forward to catching up with all of them.”

“ _Go_ ,” said Blaine. “Then you can tell me all about it,” he added, trying to sound encouraging.

“Oh, don’t worry, Blaine. There will _always_ be a lot to tell with that group,” Kurt replied, before both boys laughed and said their goodnights.

 

The day of the party found Blaine heading to the music room alone after dinner. Most of the students were already holed up in their dorms, but a few lingered as another day drew to a close. Blaine was smiling down at his phone as he walked. Kurt had just texted a photo of his ensemble, which included a pair of black pants decorated with a row of safety pins and a red fitted shirt with black leather tie (and some kind of harness, Blaine thought, raising his eyebrows). Even though he loved seeing the outfit, Blaine felt a pang of guilt that he wasn’t there to see it in person.

Suddenly, familiar voices caught his attention as he made his way down the corridor. He could tell whose they were—the crisp phrasing of Wes’s, the vampish tone of Sebastian’s. “Huh,” Blaine said quietly, coming to a halt. The voices emanated from a nearby room. He stood still and listened as the voices grew louder—clearly, Sebastian and Wes were arguing about something.

“I simply can’t comprehend why you are so fixated on Blaine,” he heard Wes say. 

“Like you other guys aren’t,” replied Sebastian. “You hang on his every word. But when you talk to the others _individually_ , do you know what happens? They—”

“You _what?”_ Wes asked sharply. There was a pause before Wes added, “What exactly are you up to, Sebastian?” He sounded curious, but also confused, Blaine thought. He wondered to what extent Wes was concerned. For all of Sebastian’s odd behavior, he still felt the boy was more or less harmless. But if _Wes_ was asking questions . . . Blaine didn’t know what that meant.  

“I just want to win—what’s wrong with that? So do _you._ Maybe I want to more than you, maybe more than any of you. I mean, this is all we have to focus on. Just this one thing. There’s nothing else! Doesn’t that bother you? Aren’t you tired of being so . . . boxed in?”

“What are you even talking about, Sebastian?” asked Wes, clearly agitated now. “Are you sure you’re . . .” he lowered his voice. “Functioning properly?” 

Sebastian laughed. “I think it’s _you_ who should be answering that question. I feel just fine _._ _All_ of me feels fine. You know who’s not fine? Lover Boy. Or Mama’s Boy. Take your pick—he’s pining for at least two people these days. Maybe more.”

“You don’t ever get to speak about Blaine in—”

“This conversation’s boring me now. Thanks, though, Wes—you’re a great pal,” Sebastian sneered.

Blaine’s heart was racing as he heard what were probably Sebastian’s footsteps enter the corridor, so he ducked quickly into another room. As Blaine peered out he could see Sebastian in the hallway, looking back toward where Wes was likely standing. “Time for ‘bed’ now, Wes,” he air-quoted. “Sleep tight.” And then he turned on his heel and walked resolutely in the opposite direction, back toward the dormitories. Blaine saw Wes head the same way soon after, looking deeply perplexed. 

He watched as the boys kept on, and lingered there as the rest of the student body disappeared for the night. Then he continued on his original path toward the music room. If his mind had been occupied earlier with thoughts of Kurt being at the party without him, it was now cluttered with countless other concerns—like what Sebastian knew, if anything, about his mother. Why would he bring her up at all? Why would he care? He sat at the piano, plunking at the keys distractedly before eventually getting lost in the music. And then, like always, he relaxed—mostly because it was easy to push all his questions aside as his fingers danced across black and white keys.

 

A set of headlines through the large picture windows alerted Blaine to the fact that he’d been playing for well over an hour. It was now dark outside. Guessing who it was, Blaine was thankful he hadn’t gone to the party. Because what would his father have done, if he’d realized Blaine wasn’t even home? Blaine supposed he was thankful Kurt had the party to go to after all, because if _he’d_ been here when his father arrived . . . 

 _Disaster_ , Blaine thought, even as he acknowledged that at some point, he might have to—well, he would certainly have to—explain himself. No, Blaine didn’t want to think about that yet, as much as he wanted to be honest with everyone. It wasn’t like him to lie. He simply knew too well how circumstance could push someone to make certain choices. He shook his head at the realization that he’d in effect constructed a cage for himself with his lies. A cage within a cage. And yet there was a tiny part of him that was almost proud. Meeting Kurt and befriending him, the competition . . . he was fighting, in his own way. Not running. It wasn’t perfect, he knew, but it was something. 

For now he decided he just needed to get some answers. Wrapped up in his conflicting thoughts, Blaine began to play again as he waited for the sound of his father’s approaching footsteps, and kept going even as the elder Anderson entered the room and laid his jacket and laptop case across the piano’s glossy lid. 

“Enjoying the evening?” his father asked, smiling.

Blaine stopped playing, rested his fingers on top of the keys and sighed. “I haven’t even _seen_ you since Christmas.” (And hadn’t that been a somber affair, a holiday without Blaine and Cooper’s mother. Throughout it Blaine had thought, sadly, _the first of many.)_  

His father’s smile faded. “I’m sorry, Blaine. I meant to visit last month,” he said lamely, running his hand through his hair. His father seemed tired, and Blaine had to admit he looked rather scruffy: his hair was longer than usual, and he wasn't clean-shaven, either. “I’m getting more questions about the project, and I keep trying to . . .” he trailed off. 

Blaine looked down at his hands. “It’s okay, I get it,” he said as if on auto-pilot, but then stopped. “Actually,” he said, plucking up the courage, “I _don’t_ get it. Where have you been? Because there are some things going on around here I don’t understand, and Cooper obviously can’t help me, and,” he added thickly, feeling suddenly emotional, “I’m pretty sure Mom is gone for good.” 

His father stepped forward quickly and lay a hand on Blaine’s shoulder. “Woah. _Woah,”_ he said. “ _Blaine_. Buddy? What’s going on?” He tugged at Blaine’s arm and guided him to the couch, where they both sat. “Did something happen to you, Blaine? Something to make you feel unsafe here? Edwards hasn’t mentioned anything—he’s always been my eyes and ears. You know that, right?”

Every instinct shouted at Blaine to tell his father already—about _everything,_ just to get it over with.“It’s Sebastian,” he said, tentatively. “One of the students—not a Warbler. I mean, he’s a Warbler _now_ but wasn’t before. He—”

“Wait a minute,” his father interrupted. “What do you mean he’s a Warbler? How?” His father looked for a moment as if he were trying to recall Sebastian’s face. Then he retrieved his laptop and in a matter of minutes pulled an image of the boy. He looked back at Blaine. “Tell me,” he said simply.

“Well, he found me one night and offered to help by joining the team.” Blaine shifted in his seat to face his father. “But now, I dunno, Wes is looking at him strangely, and he brought _Mom_ up . . .”

“He brought your mother up? Why?”

“Um,” Blaine murmured, trying to avoid mentioning Kurt, “I overheard him saying something rude to Wes about my missing her.” 

“You mean he was actually _insulting_ you?”

“Sort of,” Blaine shrugged. “Technically, I wasn’t _there,_ though, so . . .”

His father was quiet for a moment while he clicked his laptop shut. “And was he right? About missing your mother?”

Blaine looked away and replied quietly, “Of _course._ We don’t even know what _happened_. We don’t talk about it. We don’t know where she is. Sometimes I think you don’t even care. You never talk about her anymore.”

“There are always reasons, Blaine, for the things people do,” his father said, practically whispering, as if to comfort himself as much as his son. 

“No there aren’t! You mean like the guys who beat me within an inch of my life? Who basically landed me _here?_ What were their reasons?”

“They had reasons, Blaine,” he answered. “Horrible reasons—but that doesn’t mean they didn’t have them.” His father looked distracted for a moment before asking, “What did Sebastian say he wanted to help you with, again?”

“He . . . just wanted something more purposeful to do,” Blaine responded. But he could tell that his answer didn’t quite satisfy his father, who was already busy with his notebook and pen, putting words and code to the page in effort to unlock the inner workings of his machines rather than that of his own heart.  

 

“Guys. _Guys_. I was merely suggesting that instead of jackets with _blue_ ties and _red_ piping, we wear jackets with _red_ ties and _blue_ piping for the competition.” Blaine’s comment caused such an outcry in the Warbler’s meeting the following week that nobody noticed Kurt stroll in late and take his seat on the couch. Blaine looked to his friend for help, but Kurt could only shrug innocently in confusion over the chaos. 

The Warblers seemed to be arguing about everything today. They even fought about whether Blaine’s new arrangement of “Raise Your Glass,” which they planned to use at regionals, was better than the original. 

“But it’s not in his natural key!” shouted David. 

Trent jumped up from his seat and pointed at the other Warbler. “How dare you!”  

“Why don’t we just play it on kazoos?” was David’s smug reply.

Then Trent threw up his arms in frustration, as the rest of the group seemed to break down into factions seemingly centered on whether or not the number Blaine had been working so hard to arrange was good or _exceptionally_ good.

Blaine was completely bewildered—and then he noticed a very quiet Sebastian leaning up against a credenza near the back of the room, looking quite pleased with himself. 

“Enough!” yelled Blaine, taking the floor. “I’m tired of this. Regionals is coming, guys: a chance to shine. We shouldn’t be _feuding_ like this!”

Then Kurt raised his hand. “If I may?” he offered. “I know I’m a still an outsider here, and that you all are basically Blaine and the Pips—” 

“What?” asked Blaine, incredulously.

“Sorry, Blaine. But if you really want to win regionals . . .”

And then the group erupted even more into a cacophony of voices. No one even heard Wes bang the gavel to end the meeting. Whether the meeting was over or not didn’t even matter to Blaine at that point. He got up and left regardless, with Kurt trailing behind him.

“What just happened in there?” asked Blaine, dumbfounded, turning to Kurt in the hallway.

Kurt looked at Blaine sympathetically and shrugged. “Look, Blaine. Your solos are breathtaking. Also _numerous._ For what it’s worth,” he added, tentatively reaching out and patting Blaine on the shoulder, “this is how _all_ the New Directions meetings are. I kind of feel at home today,” he added, smiling, before walking off to his next class. Blaine simply stared after him, completely baffled, until he heard Kurt’s voice float from down the hall: “Everything will be _fine_ ,” it said. Blaine couldn’t help but smile just a little at that, even if the Warbler’s increasingly erratic behavior was becoming a real cause for concern.

 

Blaine soon learned that strange behavior wasn’t relegated to Warbler meetings. He’d stopped by the headmaster’s office one morning to work out some of the logistical arrangements involved in getting the group to regionals. As he walked the hallway leading to Edward’s door, he saw Edwards himself leading two Warblers out of the office. “I don’t know what has gotten into you two,” he was saying, “but I recommend you stop by the laboratory and let Mr. Anderson take a look—and if _that_ resolves nothing I’ll call in the senior Anderson.” The boys nodded then headed in the opposite direction from Blaine. 

“Busy morning?” asked Blaine, as he approached. 

“ _Busiest_ morning, maybe,” Edwards replied, a look of concern on his face. “I think our conversation about the competition will have to wait, Sir,” he said, gesturing for Blaine to enter.

When he walked into the room, he halted. Seated along the wall, presumably waiting to see Headmaster Edwards, were at least five other Warblers, including Thad. “What’s going on here?” Blaine asked.

“I don’t understand it.” The headmaster looked down the hallway. “Those two boys I just let go were wandering in the courtyard, skipping class,” he said, raising his eyebrows at Blaine. “The rest of these students have all been sent down here for similar reasons.” 

“But why all of a sudden?” asked Blaine. “Plus, why wouldn’t they follow their programming?” He felt tense already, just thinking about what could come next if these small transgressions grew into something larger—or more devious. Suddenly he felt the safety net he and his father built had a gaping hole in it.

“Whatever it is,” said Edwards, “I think we’re just about at Code Red, as far as your father is concerned. There’s something at work here, and it may be beyond your capabilities to repair it. I’m sorry, Blaine.” Then he turned toward Blaine, and after scrutinizing the boy’s features, set a hand awkwardly on his shoulder. “Well, we _might_ be able to find a way to inform him about the malfunctioning students but still get the team to regionals.” 

Blaine looked up to meet his eye. “Okay,” he nodded, but already it felt like Kurt, the Warblers—and even Dalton—were slipping from his hands. 


	9. Machinery of Love

With conflict swirling around him daily, it seemed, Blaine was constantly reminded how much he preferred harmony. As for the others, nothing had changed drastically in the last few days: Edwards had a steady stream of students who had broken minor rules, while Blaine’s interactions with the Warblers continued to be unpredictable at best. Blaine had even brought Trent up to the lab—docile, sweet Trent, who’d become so irritable at times—to see if he could troubleshoot the problem. In Blaine’s view, the changes he’d seen weren’t noticeable malfunctions. Instead the students seemed to be testing boundaries, as kids sometimes did with their parents. 

In the meantime, to Blaine’s embarrassment, the Warblers continued to argue over the _precise_ extent of his talent. Blaine was still able to motivate them to sing together, though, and with Sebastian’s help (because yes, they still wanted to _win_ even if they were a bit tense, and Sebastian could conceptualize patterns of movement in ways that continually surprised Blaine), the choreography of their regionals numbers was improving. 

Still, they were going to need all the help they could get, especially after hearing from Vocal Adrenaline’s coach (who was also, somehow, a teacher at Kurt’s old school) that the New Directions were planning _sexy_ competition songs. The news had excited Blaine, who was grateful Kurt had coaxed him off campus to the Lima Bean, where they’d luckily run in to Coach Sylvester. She’d kept referring to Blaine as Quid Pro Quo, which was odd, but having some information he could _use_ was a welcome change. It gave him something fun to think about. 

Except, Blaine had thought, _how does one sexify a group of machines?_

That very question led them to Kurt’s house immediately after, where both boys sat on the bed in Kurt’s room facing a mirror, trying their best to look sexy. Blaine had suggested to Kurt that since the Warblers had hardly performed in public, they would really need to work on their sex appeal. Remembering his conversation with Wes a while back, Blaine fixated on facial expressions—and hoped secretly that he and Kurt, as the only humans in the group, could provide the authenticity they’d need to bring home a trophy.  

“All right,” Blaine began. “So give me . . . ‘sensual.’ But don’t make fun of it—really try.” Blaine looked into the mirror and did his best “sensual” face. Honestly, he thought he did all right, considering. As for Kurt, his version seemed a little more pained than what they were going for.

“Okay, now give me ‘sultry,’” Blaine prompted next, before making a face, altering it slightly to fit the term. Then he glanced at Kurt, who was grimacing again. “Uh, Kurt—those all sort of look the same.”

“ _Great,”_ fumed Kurt, jumping to his feet in frustration. “How are we supposed to get up on the stage at regionals and sell “sexy” to the judges when I have as much sexual appeal and knowledge as a . . . baby penguin!”

“We’ll figure something out,” said Blaine, who couldn’t help but find Kurt’s exasperation charming. Blaine smiled, thinking he’d happily take on a “problem” like this over the troubles at Dalton _any_ day. 

“You don’t get it, Blaine. I don’t know how to be sexy because _I don’t know the first thing_ about sex.” 

Kurt blushed as he spoke, and Blaine had to remind himself that this was _serious business_ and that Kurt needed him. So he said, more authoritatively than he meant, “Maybe we should have a conversation about it—I’ll tell you what I know.” But what did Blaine know, anyway? Probably as much as any teen boy, he thought, before adding to himself, _any teen boy who more or less lived by himself and had nothing but the Internet to guide him_. 

“I don’t want to know the graphic details,” was Kurt’s nervous reply. He went on to explain his love for romance and musicals, where, he added, “a touch of the fingertips is as sexy as it gets.”

Now Kurt was just being stubborn, Blaine thought as he listened on. Why _wouldn’t_ he want to know how sex _worked?_ How bodies moved and changed, the different ways they fit together? The ways they could love and feel? “Kurt,” he said, more seriously now, “you’re going to have to learn about it _someday_.” 

Kurt’s response was serious, too. “I think I’ve learned quite enough for today, thank you. I think you should leave,” he said, before showing a surprised Blaine the door.

 

That evening Blaine paced all about the laboratory and tried to focus on modifications he could make to the students, or on brainstorming tweaks to their regionals numbers so they could show the judges something _new._ But time and time again, his thoughts drifted to Kurt. It seemed ironic to Blaine that _he_ was the one who knew more about something like sex, given all the times Kurt had praised his father’s supportive nature. Mr. Hummel seemed like a dream dad, from the way Kurt described him—between his having to raise Kurt on his own and his efforts to both accept Kurt for who he was and ensure that others did the same. 

Blaine stopped at the windows, which ran along one wall of the lab to reveal a clear night sky. A border of tall pines on the edge of the grounds obscured the view of the horizon. Blaine’s thoughts drifted to his own family, especially _his_ father, whose road to accepting Blaine was slightly bumpy. It had taken seeing Blaine in the hospital for him to get there completely. Blaine remembered how shaken his father had looked once he’d come to consciousness, and the way his mother glanced between the two of them all day, full of concern, as they sat in the tiny white room while monitors beeped and periodically clicked and whirred. 

But there was something about the way Kurt spoke of his dad that made it seem they _understood_ one another, that they kept nothing from one another, and Blaine knew, especially as he gazed out at the night all alone, in this place that was home and yet not home, that his family operated differently. There were plenty of times where his family functioned well. He remembered, as a kid, how he and Cooper would put on performances for neighbors, his mother looking on proudly while his father affectionately shook his head at their silliness. When they didn't function everything seemed off somehow, as if they’d all arrived somewhere with different parts of a machine, but with pieces that didn’t exactly fit—some crucial piece that would bring clarity was missing. They’d keep fiddling with the parts anyway, not knowing what else to do. At least that’s the way it had seemed since the dance. 

Maybe, Blaine thought, if he couldn’t fix his own family, he could help fix Kurt’s. He strode to the computer, keyed in “Burt Hummel,” “tire shop” and “Lima” and quickly found the address for Hummel Tires & Lube. He went to bed feeling more at ease—but a bit nervous about meeting Kurt’s dad. 

The next day Edwards arranged for Blaine’s transportation to Mr. Hummel’s shop. “Anything I need to know about?” he inquired, accosting Blaine before he got into the cab. 

“Oh,” Blaine responded not really wanting to talk about his latest secret mission with the headmaster. “No, I’m just . . . helping Kurt with something. It’s no big deal,” he added. 

Edwards paused, then asked quietly, “Have you had any luck with the Warblers?” He glanced at the cab driver, then back at Blaine. 

Blaine opened the door and stepped in, lowering the window so he could respond. “I haven’t—but I’m not quite ready to, um, ask for more help. Regionals is so close,” he added. “I think we’ll be okay?”

Edwards regarded Blaine with concern, which shifted to something like resignation before he smiled and nodded. “If you say so, Sir.” And then he stepped back to let the driver take Blaine to his destination.

 

The smell of oil hit Blaine the second he stepped inside Hummel Tires & Lube, and just like that he was fourteen again, standing in the driveway in the summer sun with his father, attempting to put a very expensive puzzle together. Everything had been awkward then—he’d just come out, and every word or gesture from his father seemed tinged with disappointment. What Blaine remembered most about that summer was sweat . . . and tension, as they worked to build something neither of them cared about. He took a breath and reoriented himself. Then he walked toward the man he knew was Mr. Hummel, after noticing the photographs in Kurt’s room the day before. 

“Need a hand?” Blaine offered. 

Mr. Hummel was bent over the hood of a car, his hands full of grease. He eyed Blaine suspiciously, then probably noticing his Dalton scarf said, “Yeah, why don’t you hand me that carburetor?”

When Blaine walked up to the work table and quickly found the part, Kurt’s father was taken aback. “You knew which one it was.”

“My dad and I built a ’59 Chevy in our driveway two summers ago,” Blaine supplied, then smiled as he added, “One of his many attempts at bonding.” How weird, Blaine thought, that the best attempt, the project they were enmeshed in now, was also sort of the worst. Focusing again on _his_ current project, Blaine said, “I wanted to talk to you about Kurt.” 

Mr. Hummel stopped his work and wiped his hands with a towel. Nodding at Blaine’s scarf he asked, “You . . . know my son? Is he okay?” 

It occurred to Blaine that while he already felt comfortable with Mr. Hummel (Kurt really _did_ talk about his dad a lot), that the opposite wouldn’t necessarily be true. _Did Kurt ever talk about me?_ he immediately wondered, his heart leaping at the thought. “I’m Blaine Anderson,” he said, offering his hand. “Kurt and I are good friends.” Mr. Hummel’s grip was very firm, and Blaine fought the urge to check for grease stains once his hand was let go. 

Mr. Hummel’s expression softened. “Yeah,” he said. “I know who you are. What’s going on with Kurt that you needed to come talk to me about it?”

Now that Blaine was actually here, standing in front of Kurt’s dad, he realized he hadn’t completely thought this through. There didn’t seem to be any segue to get him to the topic he wanted to broach. Thinking back to yesterday, the image of Kurt’s face as he asked Blaine to leave was enough to push him to ask, “Have you ever . . . talked to him about sex?”

Blaine noted the change in Mr. Hummel’s stance at his question: how protective he seemed to become. “Are you gay? Or straight? Or what?” he asked, eyeing him with some hesitation. 

“I’m definitely gay,” Blaine said, surprised at how safe he felt in the company of this man, noting the contrast between feeling safe in this father’s company versus feeling safe in the elaborate machinery his own father had created.  

"Good," Mr. Hummel replied, drawing Blaine back to focusing on Kurt. Gesturing vaguely he added, "I'm glad he has someone to talk to about . . . that kind of stuff."

Mr. Hummel's discomfort reminded Blaine of his own father's, not that the topic of sex had ever come up between them. It was rather a familiar feeling, of two people dancing around one another. Or perhaps—and more accurately—it was like carefully traversing a minefield, where one false step could expose, hurt, even destroy. 

It seemed as if Mr. Hummel wanted to avoid the minefield altogether. 

Given what he knew about Kurt's father, Blaine felt like he could, perhaps, push back a little. So he blinked, then launched into how he’d been on his own when it came to learning about sex, and what could happen if Kurt never sought out the details. For Blaine, knowing would always be preferable to _not_ knowing, thinking again to that summer when he’d found his father so hard to read. “I’m blown away by your guys’ relationship,” said Blaine, the admission of which gave him just enough courage to utter, “You think my dad built a car with me because he loves cars? I think he did it because he thought getting my hands dirty might make me straight.” _That was the past,_ he reminded himself, even if the memory of how he felt back then still stung. 

Mr. Hummel regarded him sympathetically. “Sorry if I’m overstepping,” Blaine offered lamely, realizing that probably, he had.

“You are,” was Mr. Hummel’s frank reply, before he went back to work. 

 

On the way back to Dalton, Blaine was doubtful about whether he’d accomplished anything. He felt good that he'd at least tried. There were so many things he _needed_ at the moment: to let the truth out, to feel connected and understood. And all this talk about sex left him wanting. Because sex wasn’t about the mechanics of it, it wasn’t only about being prepared and safe. It wasn’t even about _looking_ sexy, he acknowledged, feeling a bit silly about yesterday's "practice" in Kurt's room. Because sex was, most importantly, about _love_. 

And love, Blaine soon learned, was something no amount of research or planning could ever prepare you for. 

One morning after Blaine's visit to the tire shop, in fact, he was feeling anxious after receiving a cryptic text from Kurt. It read simply, _Skip first period, pls_. When Kurt finally burst through the double doors of the music room, Blaine knew immediately that something was very wrong. Kurt was dressed all in black, and tears streamed down Kurt’s cheek as he held Pavarotti’s cage in his hand.  

“Pavarotti!” Blaine cried out, as he leapt up from the piano bench. The little yellow bird lay still at the bottom of the cage. At the sight of the bird Blaine’s memory leapt to the day Cooper handed him over as a gift, and how Blaine had sat up with him the entire day, trying to coax out a song. Now he was just _gone_.

“I’m so _sorry_ ,” said Kurt, reacting to Blaine’s shocked expression. “I feel terrible about it, I—”

“It’s okay, Kurt,” Blaine said softly, clearing his voice. “It’s, um. Happened before,” he lied, trying to cover for why he was reacting so intensely. In another flash of memory, he recalled how his mother had once hung a tiny strand of seeds for Pavarotti to snack on from the cage’s upper bars. 

“Wait. What about the line of birds dating back to the 1880’s?”

“What?” Blaine asked, blinking. 

“You know, what Wes said, when Pavarotti was first placed . . . in my care,” he trailed off.

“Oh.” Blaine brushed his lapels with his hands (which were clammy, suddenly) and sat down again at the piano. “I—”

“I was going to sing for him,” Kurt said, placing the cage on the coffee table. “At practice today.”

“Sing?” Blaine felt himself struggling to stay in the conversation, as his eyes were drawn to poor Pavarotti.  

“Yeah—I sort of had something prepared,” said Kurt, pulling a cassette tape from his pocket. Then he looked at Blaine mournfully. “Do you mind if I just . . . sing it for you?” He popped the tape into the cassette player that sat atop the side table. 

“Not at all,” Blaine said, still in shock at his reaction, at _how_ upset he was about Pavarotti—he felt silly about it, actually. At how special that little bird had been to him. 

“Damn,” Kurt said. “This thing doesn’t work. That’s what I get for using an old cassette like this.”

Blaine asked, “What’s the song? I might know it.”

“‘Blackbird.’”

Blaine nodded. Straightening his posture and facing the keys, he started the first notes of the song, finding some solace in its rhythm. 

And then Kurt began to sing. 

Blaine, for his part, stuck to merely playing the melancholy tune at first (Kurt’s barb from the other day about his default status as the Warblers’ soloist pricked his memory). But then he felt pulled to accompany Kurt more fully, and so added his voice to his friend’s only as background texture—simple _bum bum’s_ that made the piece a mournful march. As Blaine played and sang, he found his rhythmic, vaguely mechanical role in the performance to be soothing, like a lullaby. 

Suddenly, inexplicably, everything seemed to fall away. 

> _Take these broken wings and learn to fly_
> 
> _All your life_
> 
> _You were only waiting for this moment to arrive_

It was stupid, Blaine knew as he played, but for a moment it was as if Pavarotti were singing to _him_. Where did he want him to go? What did he want him to see? There was only Kurt. _His_ Kurt. 

_Oh._

> _Take these sunken eyes and learn to see_
> 
> _All your life_
> 
> _You were only waiting for this moment to be free_

At some point Blaine lost all focus on what he was doing, his own part in the song abandoned. Now he simply watched and listened to Kurt perform, letting his fingers fall to rest on the piano keys. 

When Kurt finished, he looked at Blaine and commented, “You stopped playing.”

“Yeah,” said Blaine, trying to collect his scattered thoughts. “I think I must have forgotten what comes next,” he lied.

Kurt nodded. “Don’t worry about it.” He sat next to Blaine on the bench and placed his hands on the keys. “You play beautifully,” he said.

And then it was there again, that feeling of everything falling away, leaving just Kurt. _Just Kurt._

“Huh,” he said, mostly to himself.

“Huh?” asked Kurt.

Blaine felt as if the temperature of the room had suddenly increased—by about twenty degrees. At the same time his heart was beating so rapidly he thought it would leap right out of his ribcage. 

“Are you okay?” asked Kurt. “It’s Pavarotti, isn’t it? We’ll have a ceremony, okay? I’ve already got a design in mind for a tiny, bedazzled casket—”

“No, no, it’s not that,” interrupted Blaine. “Can you just . . . give me a minute? I think I need some air.” He got up from the piano, feeling flustered and silly, and—

“Tower?” Kurt suggested, interrupting Blaine’s thoughts. 

He sighed, then nodded. “Yeah.” 

They walked silently across the grounds, which were soggy since the last round of snow had melted. The quiet between them contrasted with the discordant thoughts and emotions warring in Blaine’s head and heart. 

There was a fair amount of terror, because Blaine realized now he had _feelings_ for Kurt. 

Solace, too, because he recognized that he’d probably always had them.

Terror, again, because he didn’t want to mess up what he had. It was one thing to lose Kurt due to things he couldn’t control. Quite another to lose him because of things he _could._

Also guilt. Lots of guilt, because Kurt didn’t know all he _should_ about Blaine.

And then there was . . . an overwhelming _yearning._

Yes, there was certainly that.

They found themselves at the top of the tower. 

Blaine watched as Kurt, still quiet, surveyed the grounds and forest beyond, seemingly waiting for his friend to collect his thoughts. When Kurt finally turned toward him, his smile offered encouragement. “You going to tell me what happened back there, if it’s not about Pavarotti?” he asked.

Gazing into Kurt’s eyes with new perspective, it dawned on Blaine that there was something he could be utterly honest about. He stepped forward—then, more hesitantly, stepped into Kurt’s space. He noted the way Kurt’s breathing seemed to change. He noted the tiny flecks of color in Kurt’s eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” he began. “About before. I just. There’s a moment, you know? Where you sort of say to yourself, ‘I’ve been looking for you forever.’ And it’s true,” Blaine stammered. “I have. Been looking. For someone. For you, _Kurt._ I think I just . . . didn’t understand it until just now, hearing you sing ‘Blackbird’ like that.”

Impulsively, he took Kurt’s hand, and feeling its warmth and somehow finding confidence there and in Kurt’s eyes, Blaine felt like he himself was flying as he leaned forward and pressed his lips to Kurt’s.   

As he felt Kurt kiss him back just as passionately, it felt like something inside of him was unlocked. 

 

It turned out that having an actual, verifiable boyfriend was the perfect antidote to all the Warbler in-fighting and stress. For a couple of meetings, at least, Blaine and Kurt were noticeably absent—instead they’d spent time together up in the clock tower, _practicing_ in their own way. To call Kurt intoxicating would be an understatement, in Blaine’s opinion. The warmth of his boyfriend’s lips and breath in the chilly air of the tower, the feeling of his arms holding him tight—in those stolen moments it felt as if nothing else existed in the world. 

How easy it was for Sebastian to remind him that the world, in fact, was still there. 

At the end of a tough regionals rehearsal, for instance, Sebastian strode over to Kurt and Blaine, and without any preamble whatsoever said, “So nice of you to show up today." Then he leveled a glance at Kurt. “You know, rather than you two sucking each other’s ‘faces’ off in the clock tower,” he air-quoted, “you should just go up to Blaine’s secret room. There’s a lot more space up there, and if I recall correctly, some interesting _toys_.”

Kurt schooled the horrified expression on his face into an angry one and said, “One: Sebastian—you’re gross.” Then Kurt turned to Blaine, his eyes glinting with something more like scandal. "Two: what secret room are we talking about exactly? I _love_ intrigue. Unless it’s a door to some other world where animals wax philosophically before going to battle . . .” 

Blaine scowled at Sebastian, who merely pivoted and strolled away, leaving Blaine to fumble his way through his response to Kurt about the laboratory and what it was used for. Thankfully, his phone buzzed in his pocket, and once he learned it was his father on the line, he looked at Kurt apologetically. "I have to take this," he said.

With practice over, Kurt needed to go anyway. "Talk to your mystery dad," Kurt said, leaning to plant a kiss on Blaine's nose, which tickled. "I'll see you tomorrow, okay?" 

Nodding, Blaine smiled, then put the phone to his ear. "Hi, Dad," he said, making his way down the corridor and up the stairs to the lab, so he could have some privacy. 

Blaine's father cleared his throat. "You're chipper today," he said curiously. "What's going on over there?"

Blaine's heart clenched with how badly he wanted to tell his father about Kurt. "It's been a good day," he replied. "The Warblers are, uh, doing some really cool things. You know," he added. "Just for fun." He unlocked the lab door and sat down at the desk inside. "By the way," he said, "I haven't been able to figure out what's going on with the students. I–"

"Students? As in plural? I thought it was just the _one_ ,” his father interrupted. "Blaine," he said, his voice full of concern. “Is there something you aren’t telling me?"

Blaine hesitated, and wiped his hand across his forehead. _If they could just make it to regionals. If he could just have Kurt a little longer, before everything got stripped away._

"Blaine? Look, when you told me about Sebastian’s behavior, especially about how he was insulting—even if it was behind your back—it just didn’t seem right. Sebastian may have been created by us, but I've been starting to wonder . . . if he's been tampered with. But if you're telling me that there are others—"

"It's not . . . a lot of them," he sighed. “Just the Warblers. Edwards and I have it under control. Can you just trust me?" he asked.

"Blaine, this isn't about trust, okay? I need to make sure that you're _safe_. If something's gone wrong, I need to fix it. I'm going to pack and come down to the school tomorrow. I need to see for myself what’s going on.”

Something seemed to loosen in Blaine at his father's words, or maybe it was a combination of things at work: meeting Kurt's dad, remembering a time when his relationship with his father was much more shaky, the excitement (and stress) of all the changes in his life. _Love_.

"You okay?" his father asked. 

“I dunno, I guess I was just thinking recently? About how you weren’t _always_ , um, willing to accept me for who I was.”

There was a long pause on the phone, and then his father sighed before saying, “Is this about the car again, Blaine? Look, son. Can you give me the benefit of the doubt here? I changed a lot of my life to make this project, for you. I—it’s a way for me to show my love. Maybe in the past I was unsure of how I felt—you and I both know I was wrong. It’s not something I’m proud of. But this place, these things we do together now, _that’s_ what I want you to have faith in, okay? When you see the extremes others will go to hurt someone you love, that changes you. It changes everything.”

Blaine drew in a sharp breath, his eyes stinging. But he was smiling when he said, trying to lighten the mood, “So be honest. Is that why this is an all _boys_ school? For me?”

“Is that weird?” his father chuckled.

“Kind of?”

“Uh. I didn’t actually _mean_ it to be. It was easier, to populate the place in that way . . . given the models we used.” 

“Cooper used to tease me about the students being my boyfriends.” 

“That sounds just like him,” his father said fondly. "I'll be down in the morning, okay, Buddy?”

"Sure," said Blaine, who looked at the clock, realizing how late it was. He ended the call and got up to leave—except a familiar face was peeking at him through the door. 

"Sebastian," Blaine sighed. "Up late again I see."

“I heard voices," the taller boy said smoothly. "But I was looking for you anyway. I’ve got a song for you for regionals,” he said.

“A song for me?” said Blaine. “Who decided that?”

Sebastian ignored his question and replied instead, “I'll even sing you a bit of it,” he added, grinning mischievously. “Here," he said, shoving a few pages of sheet music into Blaine's hands.

Blaine crossed his arms in front of him and waited. He recognized the Hey Monday song, but felt a chill up his spine as Sebastian crooned, 

> _All the games you played_
> 
> _The promises you made_
> 
> _Couldn’t finish what you started_
> 
> _Only darkness still remains._

“Don’t you think it would be perfect to sing this with Kurt?” Sebastian asked innocently, after he’d finished. “I think he would . . . appreciate the _emotion_ of this song, don’t you?”

“What are you doing, Sebastian?” Blaine asked nervously.

“You know, you and I spend a lot of time in History class—oh, wait a minute. You actually _don’t_ spend a lot of time there, do you? You’re above all that. You have more important things to do.”

“Look, Sebastian, I don’t know what this is about, but when you first came to see me . . . you said you wanted to help. What you’re doing with the Warblers lately? It’s actually been really great. But this, right now, and some of the other things you’ve done to the Warblers? Not helpful.”

“Oh, but you’re wrong, Blaine. What makes you think I’ve done anything to the Warblers?” he asked. 

Confused, Blaine began, “But you . . .” 

“I what, Blaine? Here,” said Sebastian. “I’ll just leave the music with you—so you can practice.” Sebastian propped up the sheet music on the piano, then strode from the room. Blaine walked toward the music, which had something written on it, presumably in Sebastian’s hand:

_Anyone who doesn't take truth seriously in small matters cannot be trusted in large ones either._

Blaine gulped at reading the quote, then gathered up his things to head to the laboratory. _Harmless,_ he kept saying to himself. _He’s harmless._


	10. Fight

> _“You don’t see it,” his mother’s voice said. “It’s not even on your, you know—your internal radar.”_
> 
> _His father’s voice. “It’s not that I don’t see it, Mina. I just honestly believe in what I’m doing. Why can’t you believe in_ me? _After all this time, surely . . .”_
> 
> _The sound of a glass being set on the counter. “How can you even say that? Of course I_ believe _in you, Steven. But I believe in our_ work, _too._ _You’re crossing lines, and you’re either unaware of what you’re doing, or worse—you don’t even care.”_
> 
> _A chair scraping against the kitchen tile floor._
> 
> _“So that’s it, then. You’re leaving. You’re abandoning us. Abandoning your son.”_
> 
> _“You’ve already abandoned me! You shut me out from the moment I questioned this idea of yours. I’m not . . . one of your_ models. _It kills me to think of what I’m about to do. But you can’t ask me to be party to this, no matter how much I do love you.”_
> 
> _A gasp, then crying._
> 
> _“Don’t leave. Please—don’t leave.”_

The memory was fresh in Blaine’s mind the second he opened his eyes, but the more he tried to chase and keep it to make it more clear, the more the edges blurred. He sat up in bed, recalling how that argument between his parents had taken place the night before his mother disappeared. He could never make her leaving _fit_. 

If only he could get his dad to speak on the matter in a way that would lay everything bare. Expose it. But during his dad’s visit the night after the phone call, he’d been focused on investigating the students’ bizarre behavior. Blaine had been lucky: Kurt didn’t come to campus at all after catching some kind of virus, and Sebastian had been very cautious around his father, not saying a word about the competition. If Blaine had to bet on it, he suspected Sebastian’s silence was some form of self-preservation—he wanted to _win_ , after all. Meanwhile his father had created new code he thought might “keep everyone in line” as he put it, and while Blaine assisted with bringing many of the Warblers to the lab itself, he wasn’t around when his father brought Sebastian there. Since his dad’s visit, Dalton seemed more calm, but there was still something peculiar about the way students surveyed Blaine as he walked the halls. Something still seemed off—or maybe he was imagining things. 

Blaine wiped the sleep from his eyes and glanced at the clock: 4:00 AM. _Great_. He was up three hours earlier than usual, and to top it off, they were to compete at regionals today. 

He wished he were more excited about it.

Nothing felt right about the competition now, thanks to Sebastian’s interference. Somehow, Blaine thought, he’d wormed his way into the group, directing the majority of the choreography, and arranging for “Candles,” which wasn’t difficult at all after he’d dangled the possibility of a duet to Kurt, who was eager to pull focus on stage. Not that Blaine was complaining about being able to sing with his boyfriend. But the song, to put it simply, made him _sad_. All he could think of while singing it was losing Kurt, and now that they were dating and Blaine had kept so many secrets, the inevitability of a break up weighed heavily on his mind. Even so, he couldn’t help but be drawn into the performance whenever they rehearsed it—he delighted in the way his and Kurt’s voices complemented one another, and he loved any opportunity to see Kurt shine and _share_ that with the world. Well, with the competition audience, anyway. The world would have to wait. 

So he ground his way through the morning hours, drinking more coffee than usual to keep himself alert. Edwards joined the group again on the much longer bus ride. On the way Blaine’s coffee proved useless. He slouched against Kurt’s shoulder, wondering drowsily what the group would do if they were lucky enough to make it to the next round, which would take place in New York. _No—this is it_ , he thought. _The end of the line_. There was no way he could _fly_ the group half-way across the country without his father knowing. Although maybe, if they won regionals, he’d be able to explain what had happened, show the results, and have his father approve the trip. It was wishful thinking, he knew. But surely, his father wouldn’t keep him at Dalton forever. He would have to graduate, wouldn’t he? He drifted off, trying to imagine a life where Dalton no longer existed.

By mid-afternoon, as the group of them stood on the auditorium stage and watched the New Directions jump with joy, it was clear that all of Blaine’s thinking about New York was unnecessary: the Warblers had lost.

Blaine watched with disappointment as the McKinley team hugged each other—and their new trophy. He glanced at Kurt as if to say, “Oh, well,” then walked forward to shake the hand of the New Directions’ coach (Mr. Schuester, if he recalled correctly). And that was it. 

He liked to think they performed admirably, if not perfectly. Perhaps too perfectly. The Pink song had been great fun, even if some of the more acrobatic leaps and flips Sebastian had choreographed—at times involving more than one student—seemed to defy what humans could even _do_. There had definitely been people in the audience whose expressions Blaine couldn’t read after that, as if they were trying to account for what they’d witnessed on the stage. In the end, Blaine had to admit that the Warblers _hadn’t_ thought of everything. Sebastian had focused on choreography, and Blaine, the arrangements and vocals. Both boys had missed a potentially ugly truth: the audience’s (and probably judges’) wavering over the physical feats of the team had perhaps been trumped by their wavering over seeing two _boys_ sing a sad but wholly romantic duet on stage. 

When the team stepped outside the building, subdued after the loss, Blaine and the other Warblers watched the New Directions bound off gleefully toward their bus. Kurt gazed at them longingly, Blaine noticed, feeling a sudden pang of guilt. He knew Kurt missed his friends, and now, with a New York trip looming on the horizon for his old team, Blaine knew Kurt’s mind, if not body and heart, would want to follow. Blaine glanced at the Warbler’s own bus, and—

His father was standing by the vehicle’s open door, _waiting_. 

Every other concern vanished from Blaine’s mind as he willed his feet to move forward. Of course he’d spent plenty of time imagining the moment his father would discover all the secrets Blaine had been keeping. He’d gone through so many permutations in his mind: a Warbler flubbing a conversation with his father or Blaine himself slipping up, some incriminating e-mail, Edwards finally having enough of what he’d started to call Blaine’s “shenanigans.”  

But in none of his imaginings did his father look quite like this: absolutely _shaken_. Blaine’s heart raced as he walked up to his dad, his mind reeling. As he closed the distance between them, he expected to see nothing but bitter disappointment in his father’s eyes. _How could you be so . . . irresponsible? Disrespectful? Reckless?_

Instead he saw fear, and even the glint of tears, before his father pulled Blaine into a crushing hug. 

“You’re _okay,”_ he gasped. 

“I’m fine, Dad,” replied Blaine. His concern about what his father would think of _him_ quickly shifted to concern about his father’s state. 

“Get on the bus,” said his father slowly, right in Blaine’s ear. “Help me get the others on the bus, Blaine.”

Blaine’s skin prickled with alarm. “Dad?” he asked, trying to pull away so he might look him in the eyes.

His father held him tight. “We can talk later, okay? I’ll be following close behind, all the way back to campus.” Then he stepped back from his son and exhaled loudly, brushing a thumb over Blaine's cheek. “I caught some of the performance,” he said, more calmly. He raised an eyebrow and added, “Those were some daring dance moves. Very _unusual_.” 

Blaine scrunched his face. “Sorry,” he said softly, studying his father’s expression, which seemed slightly more normal.

His father clapped him on the back, nodded at the others, and walked to his car, which was parked right behind them. 

Kurt sidled next to Blaine, hopping with excitement, and said, “Mystery Dad! Ooh— _handsome_! At least something _good_ is happening today. I’ve been wanting to finally meet him. I _will_ get to meet him, right?”

Blaine forced a smile, then placed a hand on the small of Kurt’s back, guiding him onto the bus. He only wished he could share Kurt’s enthusiasm. 

 

Edwards and Blaine sat in chairs next to each other in the headmaster’s office. Opposite them, behind the headmaster’s desk, was Blaine’s father, whose curls had become tousled from having run his fingers through them in frustration.

Despite his appearance, his voice was even as he spoke. “I just don’t _understand_. How you thought, _Blaine_ , that what you were doing was no different from some other teen's sneaking out of the house is beyond me. And _you_ , Edwards. What happened to keeping me informed? How could you let my son bring the students out in _public_ like that? And that dancing? As much as I was truly amazed at what our students were capable of, you had to have realized how dangerous it was to let them perform like that? To let the public _see_ that? It’s quite possible that they'll think the team was doping, do you understand? There's a high chance it will draw suspicion—"

"But we didn't even _win_ , Dad," offered Blaine. "The judges picked the New Directions, remember?"

Edwards added, "Sir, young Mr. Anderson is right, I think. The team's . . . antics . . . will soon be forgotten. It is, after all, a small venue high school competition, not a national arena."

"Er, except," Blaine suggested, "for anyone who uploads videos to _YouTube_ , I guess?” Why, Blaine wondered as he sat looking down at his hands, had he let Sebastian get so involved? Had he been that preoccupied with Kurt that he’d failed to see or think clearly? 

"Still," said his father, rubbing his temples, "It's all a mess, you know.”

Blaine contemplated his father for a moment, then said, “Dad, why were you even _there?_ How did you find out?”

“Well, I . . .” began his father. “I came to Dalton this morning and none of you were here,” he said. “It didn’t take long to discover your whereabouts, once I knew to look for the signs. It was crucial that I knew where you were—where the others were. I hope you can understand that even now I can’t tell you everything I know. But I can—try to piece some things together for you. You see, I’ve been looking for your mother.”

“You _what?_ ” asked Blaine. “Dad, where is she? Do you know something? How could you not—”

“ _Blaine,”_ interjected his father. “All these things you’ve been experiencing with the students. The behavior? That’s . . . related to your mother’s disappearance. I know that now.” He glanced at Edwards, whose expression was impassive, then back to Blaine before adding, “I suspect even the changes in Edwards have something to do with her. I’ll admit it’s fascinating,” he said, turning again toward the headmaster, who met Blaine’s father’s gaze. “The way he’s _looked out for_ you, the way he’s _cared_ for you. But not just that. It’s the way he’s rationalized supporting you; he’s taken _risks_ to do so.”

“ _Dad_.” Blaine was simply trying to get his bearings now. “I think I deserve an explanation. It’s _Mom,”_ he added, shakily. “Please.” 

Blaine’s father got up from his chair and knelt before Blaine’s. Grasping Blaine by the elbows he said, very quietly. “We both know that your mother didn’t approve of our little project. And who knows? Maybe she would’ve left me. Left _us_. For a while that’s what I’d thought. But later I found I was wrong—she was taken.”

“But why?” Blaine asked, his heart pounding at the thought of his mother being _captured_ by someone.

His father sighed. “I believe she was . . .” he said, pausing to look up at Edwards, whose expression was still oddly blank, “trying to set all our creations _free.”_ He looked back at Blaine. “I didn’t even know about it,” he said, clearly frustrated. “Otherwise I could have . . .” He paused, collecting himself. “When I was in the lab recently I’d discovered that the Warblers, and even Edwards here, were tampered with. It took me a long time to trace it back to her. She’s _very_ good,” he said, fondly, before clearing his throat. “What I can’t tell is why she did it. Whatever happened, she somehow escaped, but as for her whereabouts now . . .” He stood up suddenly, and glancing between Blaine and Edwards said, “That same person who took your mother, I surmised recently, knows our location here. That’s why I was in a bit of a panic earlier.”

Blaine still sat in his chair, mind racing after all that his father had told him. “So now what?” he asked his father.

“Indeed,” was all the reply Blaine got, as his father paced the room, deep in thought.

 

After the exhausting meeting with his father and the headmaster, Blaine just needed some space. His father had continued pacing, eventually asking his son to allow him a word alone with Edwards. The privacy of the laboratory beckoned, but as Blaine turned toward the third floor stairwell, he practically crashed right into Kurt. With all the chaos of the day, he’d forgotten that Kurt was still _here_ , waiting for him. Blaine’s father hadn't even noticed Kurt at the bus earlier, and once they’d arrived at Dalton, Blaine had reported directly to the headmaster’s office, where he had been holed up until now. 

“What are you doing in this part of the building, Kurt? I, um, was looking for you,” Blaine said nervously. 

“I swear to God, Blaine,” Kurt said, smiling mischievously. “I’m just going to check out this secret room of yours—I can deal with your . . .” (he cupped his hand around his mouth and whispered) “porn.”

Blaine felt his cheeks heat up as he stammered, _“What?”_ then, seeing Kurt about to enter the stairwell, rushed to block the way. “Wait,” was all that he could think to say. “Look,” he said, “I’m kind of the only student who has a key to that room. It’s not a room others are allowed in.” With the secrets that had already been exposed, Blaine didn't think he could reveal any more today—especially _this_ one. 

Kurt wrapped his arms in front of his chest. “You mean like the special key only _you_ had to the clock tower? Why is this any different?”

Blaine pressed his fingers against his forehead. “It’s not just a space that’s off limits. It’s like a storage room—there are sensitive documents and stuff.”

“So why would the school only trust _you_ to not ruin or steal those things? _Seriously,_ Blaine.”

“Because . . . my parents donated a lot of money to this place, okay? It’s why I get treated the way I do here,” he said, hands dropping to his side in embarrassment that he’d let this lie grow as much as he had. 

Kurt rested his hands on his hips, frowning. “So what you’re saying,” he got out, very slowly, “is that you didn’t actually _earn_ any of the privileges you have here? You get them merely because your family has money.”

That was the _last_ thing he wanted Kurt to think about him. “I—” 

“No, I get it,” said Kurt, raising his hand in protest. “I’m not judging you—at least I’m trying not too. I’ve always been used to fighting for _everything_ I have, that’s all. And . . . I get that not everyone has to do that. It’s frustrating, but I get it.” Kurt looked down at his shoes. “I still don’t see why you’re being so secretive about this, though. Sebastian said—"

"Forget about Sebastian!" cried Blaine. 

Kurt raised his palms to Blaine, affronted.

"I'm sorry, Kurt. I—" but he didn't know what to say anymore. 

“Just give me the key, Blaine,” commanded Kurt, his hand outstretched.

Blaine sighed. 

Just as Blaine was about to pass over the key in resignation, shouts erupted from the floor below. Both boys turned abruptly as they continued to listen. Blaine thought he heard furniture scraping the floor. Then there was a sound like a table being toppled, and immediately after, the crash of what was probably a lamp. 

“What the hell is going on down there?” asked Kurt, alarmed.

Blaine swallowed. “I honestly don’t know.” 

When the boys got downstairs, they followed the clamor to the senior commons, where they found Nick and Jeff punching each other.

Blaine had never before seen the machines engage in violence. He remembered his attempts, early in his life at Dalton, to start his own version of a fight club in response to how terribly he’d been bullied at his old school. Of course his club had been nothing like the cinematic one. His fight club had been very _orderly_ , and really just involved them working out together or practicing self-defense—just not on each other. The club was short-lived, since the students he’d enrolled went through the punching bags so quickly; they’d simply torn them to shreds.  

Watching Nick and Jeff right now, Blaine froze. It was horrifying to watch, not only for the power behind the blows they launched at each other, but for both students' ability to withstand them. And the sounds of the punches as they came . . . well, it made Blaine remember punches he’d received not so long ago, even though these sounds were wholly different. Hollower, somehow, like banging two metal pipes together. 

Finally one of them dug his fingernails into the other’s face and pulled off a chunk of skin. Neither machine cried out in pain, which made the entire act even more disturbing to witness. But the layer of skin was deep enough that it exposed some of the cyborg’s underlying circuitry and structure. 

Everyone simply stood still. 

Except for Kurt, who screamed just as Blaine’s father and Edwards ran into the room. The two men quickly got the cyborgs under control (Blaine saw his father lean in and utter something as he stepped close—as if some kind of password). 

Then Blaine's father just stared at Kurt, then looked to Blaine, then back at Kurt, silently putting pieces together. Once again, Blaine was taken aback with his father’s countenance, which wasn’t awash with disappointment. This time, it felt more like a mixture of surprise . . . and sadness. But he didn't have time to contemplate it further. Beside him, Kurt began slowly to step back, eyes wide. Pressing his hand over his mouth, he turned and ran out the door, without so much as a glance at Blaine. 

 

Blaine searched everywhere for Kurt, even the clock tower, before realizing that his boyfriend would probably want to know and see _everything_ now.

He found him on the third floor, sitting with his back against the laboratory door. Without a word, Blaine unlocked the room, then reached out a hand to help Kurt up from the cool tile. He felt encouraged that his boyfriend took what he offered.

Kurt remained silent as he perused the room, examining its contents. He seemed to be sorting out his thoughts more than really studying the space. He ended up in front of the picture windows, where the sky was washed in pinks and oranges. 

“But I don’t understand,” said Kurt. “It’s like you just have a school full of _toys_ , Blaine. And you lied to me. About _all_ of it." Blaine could tell Kurt's mind was finally beginning to process everything. In fact he soon began pacing back and forth across the room, stopping periodically as each new thought occurred to him. 

"You took my father's _money_ , for a school that wasn’t even real!

"You sat in pretend _classes_ with me!

"You had me go on endlessly about homework. About our lives here. About fitting in here. I must have sounded like an idiot!

"No wonder I never fit in. How could I?

"How could you?" Kurt asked, finally stopping to look directly at Blaine, who'd been seated nervously on the edge of the desk. 

Blaine was confused for a moment, as he tried to meet Kurt's intense gaze. "How could I . . . fit in?" he asked. "Or," he offered, breaking eye contact and looking at the floor, added more softly, "how could I lie to you?"

“Your words,” Kurt replied.

“ _Kurt,”_ Blaine started. “I—”

“No. I can’t do this now,” he said. “Because you know what this means, Blaine? It means I’m not safe. If I can’t be here, then I guess I’m back at McKinley. Or maybe I’m nowhere! But I can’t be _here_ , because none of this,” he gestured around the room, “is real. And right now, as far as I’m concerned, neither are you.”

“If you just let me explain,” Blaine pleaded. “I’ve wanted to tell you about this for so _long,_ Kurt, you have no idea.” 

“What are you going to tell me, Blaine? How all your lies were meant to protect me? Or were they just part of a big joke? No thank you,” he said, and then, “I’ve got to go now.”

“I’m sorry,” a voice said suddenly, “But no one’s going anywhere at the moment.”

Both boys turned toward the door. Standing there was a tall, blonde man. He was . . . rather young, Blaine thought, but carried himself in a way that suggested authority. Next to him stood Blaine's father, and the peculiar way he stood, his arms hanging loosely at his side, coupled with Blaine's observation that the other man's arm was positioned behind him made Blaine pretty sure his father was being held at gunpoint. 

“I figured you were in your room, Blaine,” his father said, a worried expression on his face. 

“Perfect.” The man steered Blaine’s father past the desk. "Introduce me to your _son_ , Anderson,” the man said. 

"Blaine, and Kurt, is it?” his father said. “This is Hunter Clarington. This man kidnapped your mother, Blaine," he said, before Hunter reached up and clocked his father in the head with what was indeed a weapon, causing his body to crumple to the floor.


	11. Flight

By the time Blaine’s father had come to, Hunter had relocated them to the senior commons, where they along with several of the Warblers now sat scattered on the furniture and floor. The doors were shut and guarded. Near the fireplace, Hunter sat rigidly in a wingback chair, his jaw set, tapping the pads of his fingers together. 

Blaine, in an attempt to shield Kurt and give him _space_ amidst the chaos, had found a spot for the two of them on the floor against the back of the sofa, where they sat facing the windows. From their vantage point they could see outside—everything was eerily quiet. Kurt had barely spoken since Hunter had captured them, and while Blaine was frightened and worried, he was also feeling guilty for what he’d gotten Kurt into. Blaine's chest tightened as panic began to prick along the edges of his mind, prompting him to tuck his head between his legs. He just needed to _think._ When he felt Kurt’s hands on his back rubbing gently, he sat up and met his gaze. Kurt looked concerned, his anger from before seemingly gone.

“You okay?” Kurt whispered, leaning in close.

“Am _I_ okay?” whispered Blaine in return. “How are _you?”_

Kurt glanced away for a moment before observing, “I’d be doing a lot better if my boyfriend hadn’t been keeping his secret life of intrigue _secret_ from me!” He paused, then added, “For now, I’d love to know what exactly is going _on_ ; I can be angry at you later—when we’re not being held hostage, or whatever this guy Hunter is trying to do with us! I mean, who does he think he _is_ with that hair?”

Blaine sighed in relief, just happy to have Kurt talking—not yelling—at him. But Kurt noticed the gesture and added pointedly, “I _am_ still angry at you, Blaine Anderson.”

“I know, I _know,_ ” replied Blaine. “Okay. Let me . . . try to explain.” Blaine glanced around him before whispering to Kurt the most skeletal accounting for their current predicament: the nature of his parents’ work for the government, the reason he’d ended up in the hospital and his parents’ differing responses to that, his role in the creation and administration of Dalton Academy. 

After he’d finished, Kurt nodded and said simply, “Yeah, I don’t think I would’ve _led_ with any of that back when we first met . . . The army of robots thing would’ve been a real turn off.” 

“They’re not an _army,_ ” Blaine countered, chuckling as quietly as he could. What amazed him, actually, was how buoyed he was right now, despite the tense situation they were in. Everything always fell away around Kurt, and Blaine realized the only thing left, the only thing that really mattered, was that he loved this boy. _He loved Kurt._  

That realization spurred Blaine to ensure he could _keep on_ loving Kurt. He stood up slowly to survey the room. “I need to check on my father,” he whispered. “And then we need some kind of plan.”

 

He found his father crouched on the floor on the other side of the commons, examining Nick, who’d lost a small chunk of his face earlier during the fight with Jeff. Somehow he’d been able to procure a bandage to cover the opening, and now was speaking quietly to the student, who looked at him with what Blaine interpreted as deep respect. Witnessing that little moment, it occurred to Blaine that his father was really sort of his own _person_ —not everything he did was tied to his son. Blaine was even beginning to grasp the extent to which his father truly cared for his creations. All of them. It was imprinted on the fabric of this place.

Blaine squatted next to his father. “What are we waiting for, exactly?” he whispered. “Why are Hunter and his goons just standing guard over us?”

His father cast an angry glance toward Hunter, who'd now swiveled his chair away from them. "I'm not exactly sure of the details," he said quietly. "But I assume he wants to take our technology—which for him means taking the students, probably as many as he can. I just wish I knew how your mother factored in to this. Honestly I just want to know where she _is._ ” His father rubbed absently at a scuff mark on the polished floor.  

"What do you think he's waiting for?" Blaine wondered out loud. "And how long ago do you think Mom—"

"I think,” his father interrupted, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, “that whatever means he has of transporting the students has yet to arrive. That's what he's waiting for. There’s something else you should know,” he added, lowering his voice even more. “Hunter is . . ." He looked at Blaine uncertainly before saying only, "There’s something different about him, that’s all.”

"What's different?" Blaine asked, puzzling it out for a moment before opening his eyes wide. "You mean he's a _machine_ ,” he concluded. "But . . . how? And who _is_ he, anyway? He acts like he knows you," Blaine observed, marveling a bit at how much his father was sharing. The exact nature of his parents' work had always been rather mysterious. When he was very young, in fact, he and Cooper used to pretend they were spies. His older brother would concoct elaborate stories, piecing together whatever crumbs his parents' would offer about their lives away from home. 

"Of course your father knows me," Hunter interjected, suddenly rising from his chair. "You never forget the things you create. Right, Anderson?"

Blaine kept his position on the floor. "What's he mean, Dad?" He glanced at his father, then back toward the sofa, where he could see only Kurt's eyes peeking out from behind the cushions.

"Hunter's . . . with the military," his father started slowly. "There was a special team. They wanted soldiers who would do whatever it _took_ , who would withstand a lot of stress, pain, intensity."  

"We did what we were told," Hunter sneered. "We didn't take things into our own hands. You wouldn't _grant_ us that ability.”  

"That wasn't the goal," said Blaine's father, whose expression turned to confusion. "But you were . . . corrupted, your programming failed. I don't quite understand, even, how you're _here_. I thought the project had been terminated."

"Don't play games, Anderson. We both know you abandoned the team.” Hunter began pacing the room, clearly agitated. "I was your _first_ ," he spat. "What was so terribly wrong with me?"

"Tell me," said Blaine's father, ignoring Hunter's question. "What did you want with her? With Mina? I really doubt she would’ve assisted you with whatever plan you hatched.”

“But she _did,”_ Hunter replied, regarding Blaine’s father with curiosity. “Only I think . . . you didn't _know_."

Blaine noted a flicker of fear in his father's face. “Where is she?” he asked.

Hunter smiled and said, triumphantly, "You realize when you push someone enough, when you corner them, make them feel they've no other option . . . they submit, they give up. Or they fight."

"No," his father replied. "That's not all there is, Hunter. That's what you choose to see."

"You're wrong,” Hunter remarked, before turning away from them. 

Blaine sank to the floor next to his father, trying to grasp everything he’d heard. If his mother had done something to the Warblers, to “set them free” as his father said earlier in the headmaster’s office, then what did she do for Hunter? And what, in turn, did he do to her? 

His thoughts were interrupted by Kurt, who was making his way across the room in a crouched position. On the way he bumped into a table, sending a metal plaque to the floor where it made a ringing sound. “Oops,” he said, looking apologetically at Hunter (who scowled in response) before rushing to Blaine’s side. “Have you figured out how we’re going to get out of here yet?” he whispered, casting a hesitant glance Blaine’s father’s way. 

“I’m working on it,” his father said, making eye contact with Kurt before looking back at Blaine. “When Hunter took me to the lab where we found you two—and, uh, remind me someday to ask you what the _hell_ you were thinking setting up the school for him without informing me?—he’d let slip the extent of his team. It’s remarkably small, but more are on the way, I think.” 

Blaine sighed, his thoughts drifting to his mother. His body was wired with a sense of urgency. “Dad,” he asked. “Is your work like this _all_ the time?”

His father smiled softly as he glanced at his son. “No, mostly it’s been your mother and I just . . . making things. It’s how we met, you know. She was the artist on our little team.”

“And what were you?” Blaine asked fondly. 

His father replied, “I was the one who fell in love with her.” 

 

As the minutes ticked by, Blaine began to sense that whatever Hunter had been waiting for was about to come to pass. When the other man strode to the window and stood looking out into the night, his hands resting squarely on his hips, Kurt and Blaine exchanged curious glances. A moment later Blaine felt Kurt’s fingers seeking his own. He accepted the gesture gratefully and squeezed Kurt’s hand. 

It seemed like Blaine’s father felt something was coming too, as he began to address Hunter again. “These models I’m assuming you plan to take aren’t even built for the military. What’s your objective here, Hunter? Are you planning to take them so you can rent them out at parties? They really _do_ have some great dance moves.” Several of the Warblers seated around the room looked up at the compliment and smiled faintly. As Blaine watched them, he realized that certain members were missing altogether. _Where was Wes? And why wasn’t Sebastian lurking about?_ For all Blaine knew, Sebastian was in league with Hunter. What had his father said—that only the Warblers and Edwards were tampered with? Had Sebastian been modified too?

“You’re, right, Mr. Anderson, they’re not built for the military,” said Hunter, still peering out the window. “That doesn’t mean they’re not valuable.” He pivoted on his heel to face Blaine’s father. “Soon, I’ll make them even stronger than they are, and I won’t hold them back. They need a master who _understands_ them—and let’s be honest. No _human_ ever will.” 

As Blaine listened to Hunter, he could hear the familiar _wop wop_ of a helicopter approaching. Hunter noticed too and remarked happily, “Ah, there’s our ride now.” The sound grew nearer and louder as Blaine clutched Kurt’s hand. 

“What do you need with us, Hunter?” Blaine’s father shouted over all the noise. The windows started to vibrate, then rattle as the chopper approached.

“As charming as I’m sure he is, I don’t care about your son,” shouted Hunter in return. “But you? I need _you_ , Anderson. Your expertise will be most valuable to my project. And yes, that project involves these students of yours, but we’ll ‘graduate’ them, if you don’t mind, from all the dancing and schoolbooks—their education from now on will utilize their more _aggressive_ sides.” 

A military transport chopper finally came into view and landed right on the darkened Dalton lawn. From the expression on Hunter’s face, though, it wasn’t the ride he was expecting. 

“What’s this?” he muttered. “Where are _ours?”_ The guards he’d planted seemed to be wondering the same; they left their posts to investigate, and crept slowly out of the building, their weapons raised.

“Boys,” Blaine’s father said calmly, grasping them both by the arm. “I want you to make for the exit, quickly. Get out of the building—if you can’t get off the grounds, then find somewhere to hide _away_ from the buildings.”

Blaine’s heart was racing. “No—wait. What about you?”

“I’ll catch up,” he said. “Everything’s going to be okay—trust me. I just want you to be safe and as uninvolved in this as possible.” Blaine’s father grasped his son by the shoulder. “And _Blaine_ : stay hidden. Start moving—Hunter’s going to be plenty distracted. Right. _Now.”_  

Hunter appeared to realize his mistake when out of the choppers spilled what looked like a swarm of giant insects, but in actuality were armed men and women dressed entirely in black. Blaine and Kurt had already edged toward the double doors. They stood and bolted. Chaos erupted all around them. Blaine was only vaguely aware of the Warblers and other students scattering—Hunter seemed to be rounding up some of them as another, differently marked chopper arrived. Blaine was pretty sure Hunter wasn’t going anywhere tonight, but that didn’t stop the feeling of panic. 

“What are we supposed to do?” panted Kurt. “Where can we hide?” They ran hand in hand down the atrium stairs, arguably the most conspicuous place in the building. They quickly pushed past other students, most of whom didn’t seem to know what to do. “The short cut!” Blaine yelled, then dragged Kurt down a deserted corridor. A few moments later, Kurt and Blaine were outside in the dark, sprinting across the grass. They stopped behind a dumpster and doubled over as they caught their breath. 

“Something’s not right,” Blaine said. There was pandemonium everywhere. The SWAT team, or whatever it was, didn’t just round up Hunter (although that in itself was a sight to see, as he’d lashed out furiously at them as he was subdued, waving his arms wildly and screaming inexplicably about the scent of freshly-sharpened pencils in the air). No, what didn’t make sense to Blaine was the way they seemed to be herding the _students_ , too. Some of the team were even carrying things out of the dormitory—it looked like equipment from the third floor laboratory. “What’s going on?” he wondered aloud as he scanned the grounds. “Why are they taking everything?”

“Where’s your dad?” Kurt asked. “Do you see him out there?”

A voice behind them—one Blaine had longed to hear for a year and a half now—supplied the answer. “They’re dismantling the project, Blaine. Your father’s safe with them—in fact your father and I are on the very same payroll as those agents.”

Blaine spun around in the dark. “Mom?” he gasped. 

He felt Kurt’s hand on the small of his back, nudging him in her direction, but he didn’t need any prodding. His mother stepped forward to meet him, the distant choppers’ lights shining just enough to bring her clearly into view. 

The first thing Blaine noticed was that his mother’s wavy hair was much longer than he remembered (and messier). She seemed smaller, too. Maybe it was the way she was dressed—in a loose, too-big-for-her tee and jeans. When was the last time he’d even seen her in jeans? He couldn’t recall. But her lips were moving; she was speaking to him, he just couldn’t make out the words at first, because, well, _his_ _mother was really here_. She was real.

“. . . and they’ve been on Hunter’s trail for months now, he wanted me to modify their programming, which I already _had_ but he didn’t realize what I’d done and—” 

“You’re alive,” Blaine interrupted. “You’re not dead.”

“Is that what you thought?” she asked, eyes wide. “Surely your father didn’t tell you that, I—“

“No. _No,_ of course not. I just,” Blaine started, shaking his head. “I’m alone a lot. Have been alone,” he corrected. “You were gone and none of us ever talked about it and—” he added, his voice beginning to crack. 

Blaine could feel tears pressing for release, and as his mother stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him, he let them go with a gasp. “I’m sorry,” she said into his hair as she held him for a moment. Then just like that, she grasped his arms and pushed back, surveying him. “Look at how you’ve grown,” she said fondly. 

His mother glanced at Kurt and smiled, then, but the expression soon vanished as she looked beyond him at the clock tower. “There isn’t a lot of time, honey,” she said, her eyes on Blaine as she tugged gently at his arm. “We have to go now.”

“What’s happening?” asked Kurt. 

“Everything’s happening,” she said excitedly. “Which means, everything’s falling apart. Come on.” Nudging both boys toward the woods, she added, “I’ll explain later.” Then she broke into a jog, with both boys trailing behind. 

A sudden explosion forced them to the ground. Blaine met Kurt’s eyes as he pushed himself up—they were full of fear. Both boys turned to find the clock tower replaced by a pile of rubble. Smoke and flame bloomed everywhere.

“Faster now, boys,” Blaine’s mother said, and all three of them got up and ran. 

“But the fence,” Blaine shouted over the sound of broken glass shattering behind them. He heard a sound like a hailstorm as bits of glass hit brick and pavement. They could smell smoke thickening in the air; they could hear the fire grow into a roar behind them.

“It’s okay,” his mother yelled back. “I’ve got this.”

As they reached the wrought iron fence Blaine’s mother stepped toward a small cluster of holly bushes. Holding back the prickly leaves with one arm, she felt along the iron for a moment, unlatched something Blaine couldn’t quite see, then pushed the hidden gate open and stepped through. She turned and gestured for the boys to follow.

“What’s this?” asked Blaine. 

“Well, we can’t exactly walk through the front gate,” his mother said, before making eye contact with her son. “I’m . . . on a bit of a secret mission,” she said. “It’s my _own_ secret mission, but still.” Blaine noted the twinkle in her eye as she spoke, and couldn’t help but smile in wonder. With the boys now safely on the other side of the fence, Blaine’s mother latched the gate. She nodded at the Dalton campus. “Tell me,” she said. “Will you miss it?” 

From their position on the other side of the iron barrier, Blaine, his mother, and Kurt all watched as flames licked up the facades of the buildings. It was only a matter of time now, he supposed, before all of Dalton would be a memory.

“I’ll miss some of it,” Blaine said quietly, looking at a pile of rubble that used to be the clock tower. The jumbled lyrics of a song came to him unbidden, then, along with the melody he’d sometimes played on the grand piano that was likely smashed to bits now: 

> _I walked across an empty land_
> 
> _I knew the pathway like the back of my hand_
> 
> _Is this the place we used to love?_
> 
> _Is this the place that I’ve been dreaming of?_

He felt his mother’s hand smoothing the skin on the back if his neck with her thumb. "Hey," she said, softly. "Everything will be okay." 

Blaine let his own mental gears turn for a moment. In his view, they seemed quite a distance from _okay._ “What did you do?” he asked.

“In some ways,” she said, “I did what Hunter wanted me to. He just never really understood that you can’t . . . coerce people into making a choice, and still call it _choice._ Free is free.”

The sound of gently rustling leaves caught her attention. She looked back sharply, then softened her expression. “I brought someone with me,” she said softly, turning Blaine away from the fence and toward the pines.

“Coop!” Blaine cried, as his older brother emerged from the forest and crushed him in a hug. 

“Hey, Squirt,” was Cooper’s reply. “This whole _espionage_ thing is going to work wonders for my resume,” he said, beaming. 

“Coop,” said Blaine. “You probably won’t be able to _tell_ anyone about this, you know . . .”

Kurt blinked as he took in Cooper’s features, a look of familiarity dawning on his face, which quickly turned to awe. “You’re . . . you’re . . . I know you. From the . . . the _thing_. The commercial. _FreeCreditRating_ dot com. Am I right?”

"Slash _Savings!”_ Cooper sang softly, smiling wide.

 _“Blaine Devon Anderson,”_ Kurt said, turning to his boyfriend. “What else aren’t you telling me about your family?”

Blaine's mother smiled and shook her head. “Knowing what Hunter was up to, and how he was willing to capture me, I played it safe by bringing Cooper along,” she informed them. “Maybe it was risky. Sometimes you just need to keep the people you love close,” she said, “no matter what’s going on around you.” She reached out to Blaine and tugged him to her. “But Blaine’s right, Cooper. They don’t know I’m here,” his mother said, gesturing to the agents. "They’re cleaning up a project your father and I worked on for years, a project that on the surface anyway, looks like a indisputable failure.”

“Because the Warblers were acting out?” asked Blaine. “Whatever you did, they seemed to be malfunctioning. Two of them were tearing each other up just a while ago. Hunter didn’t know he was getting faulty cyborgs, did he?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t call them faulty,” she said, before adding carefully, “Sometimes it just takes a while to adapt to new situations. But then,” she said, "we reorient ourselves. We learn, we grow. Sometimes pushing someone enough forces the change. Sometimes freedom does the same." She nodded in Cooper's direction then and said to Blaine, “Look. After all of this is over they’ll have questions for you. And for your father, I’m sure. I think we should . . . get Kurt out of here, so they don’t know about his involvement. We don’t need to put Kurt or his family through all of that scrutiny.”

Blaine pulled Kurt into his arms. “I’m sorry,” he whispered in Kurt’s ear. 

“Just promise me,” Kurt said, “That after all of this we do something _normal?_ Something completely ordinary? Like clothes shopping at the mall?”

“I haven’t been to the mall in, like, two years,” laughed Blaine. “I would _love_ that. I can wear regular clothes again!” 

“Oh my _God_ ,” Kurt moaned, before planting a gentle kiss on his boyfriend's nose. Then Kurt turned and followed Cooper into the trees. 

 

The campus—what was left of it—grew more quiet as the night wore on. No students could be seen, and the agents seemed to be removing any evidence that could possibly be related to his parents’ work. They’d sent Blaine’s father home, but he'd immediately (and secretly) located Blaine on the opposite side of the fence—and then rushed to his wife's arms when he saw she was there too. It had been a tearful but happy reunion.

Currently, Blaine's parents' were talking animatedly with each other not far from where Blaine stood at the fence. They weren't fighting or arguing. No, it was much more like _sharing_ —and hearing the rise and fall of their voices reminded Blaine of how things used to be. He shook his head in amusement at how quickly they fell into their old patterns.

Meanwhile Blaine watched as what had been his home for so long burned to the ground.

Suddenly the holly bushes just beyond the fence started to shake. A hand appeared soon after, pushing the prickly leaves to the side. 

It was Sebastian.

Blaine faced the other boy through the iron bars, regarding him with a fair amount of suspicion. Interestingly, Sebastian seemed to regard Blaine in the same exact way. 

“It only _looks_ like I’m on the wrong side, you know,” Sebastian said, finally. “It wouldn’t take much to put me where you are. Maybe you can help a guy out?” 

Blaine eyed Sebastian doubtfully. “But you’re not a nice _person_. You're always kind of a jerk.”

“Congratulate your dad for designing cyborgs who aren’t all ass kissers,” said Sebastian. “Actually, I think it’s your mother who deserves our gratitude. Well, _my_ gratitude.”

To Blaine’s surprise, Wes stepped up from behind Sebastian, his hair full of gray ashes. “They’ll be here soon, Blaine. They’ve already captured so many of the students—most went willingly, you know. But some of us—the Warblers—are different.”

Whatever his mother had done, Blaine knew Wes was right. They _were_ different. They had some _fight_ in them (perhaps too literally at times, but evolution, he was starting to understand, could be a rather violent process). And now they wanted what he had wanted: freedom.

There was nothing to think about, not really. “You’ll have to be extra quiet, then,” said Blaine, as he carefully unlocked the gate to let them pass. Wes shook his hand, and as he did Blaine made eye contact with Sebastian, who merely nodded before saying, “And now I'm stuck with the _king_ of the ass kissers,” he said, twitching his head in Wes’s direction. Then, smiling, he tugged at Wes’s arm and both boys ran off into the night. 

 

Once Cooper returned from dropping off Kurt, all of the Andersons finally got into a car together (secretly) and went home. There was nothing left for them to do at this hour at Dalton. 

 _Home._ For Blaine, the word _homecoming_ had never signified so very much.

For most of the ride, Blaine stayed in the back seat, tucked in his mother’s arms, while his father drove and Cooper slept. “I still don’t understand,” he said eventually, “Why you couldn’t contact us. Dad thought you’d left. Coop and I both thought you were gone for good, and we’d no idea why, other than you being angry at Dad.” He glanced sideways to make eye contact, then rested his head back against his mother’s shoulder. 

“Well,” Mrs. Anderson started, “I _was_ angry at your dad. Also worried. But then Hunter found me and wanted to _use_ me. He made it very clear that he would cause real harm if I spoke out, if I did anything. I wasn’t sure if he would target your dad, or you—or even Cooper, I suppose. At the time, I felt kind of trapped, and gathering information, well, that seemed like all I could do. I was formulating a plan. _Something._ I wanted to do _something . . ._ ” she trailed off. Blaine could feel her tense as he leaned against her. He leaned back, closer. “So I did.” 

“You set them free,” offered Blaine. "At least, some of them."

“Hunter didn’t know that’s what I was doing. He thought I was modifying them to suit _his_ purposes. Hell, Edwards let me in the front gate. But you’re right, I didn’t change everyone. Just your Warblers.”

“And Edwards?”

Blaine’s mother smiled. “He was the first. Because of him, I had hope it would work.” 

“But if they were free, why were they acting out?” he wondered aloud.

“They could _always_ change, Blaine. In a basic way they—and we— _adapt_ to things all the time. Say you go to the movies, and the film you’re about to see is sold out. You pick another one. You don’t just stop functioning there in the street,” she chuckled. “Or,” speaking more seriously now, “say something happens to your child, something you never prepared for.” She ruffled Blaine’s curls, which had now mostly come loose. “The funny thing about adaptations, though, is how much they sometimes are for _us_ more than those we’re making changes for.” Blaine’s mother sighed. “But the kind of adaptation you witnessed in the Warblers? That comes from wanting to change your _entire_ life situation. Of not being happy with it on some fundamental level. In their individual ways, they were fighting back.”

Blaine’s father caught his son’s glance in the rearview mirror as he drove. “Just like you did,” he said, which made Blaine smile. 

As Blaine sat in the back seat, drowsiness beginning to wash over him, he pondered some of the things he'd learned that night, about the Warblers he thought he'd come to know so well. A thought kept nagging at him, though, as he turned things over in his mind. It was a silly thought, probably.

“Am I . . . real?” murmured Blaine. 

“Why would you ask that?” said his mother, pulling him close. “Of course you’re real,” she said. “But so are they. Real because they _do,_ not because they _are._ And that’s true for you as well. Do you understand?” she asked, cupping his chin and lifting it slightly so that he would meet her eyes. “We talked about it, you know. After what happened to you. Just—how do you protect your child? Your father’s idea was to wall you up here, which I was against. But we talked—about an implant, something that would make you special, give you an edge if need be.”

“You were going to do _what?”_

“It’s not that far off, you know,” she chuckled softly at Blaine’s wide-eyed expression. “Burying chips under people’s skin, boosting their memory, allowing them to see more, hear more. It’s a mating of technology and humanity, I suppose.”

“Why didn’t you do it?”

“I dunno. Maybe I was afraid you wouldn’t be _you_ anymore.”

He was silent for a moment before he asked, “What’s going to happen to them—to Wes and Sebastian? What about the others?” he asked. 

Blaine’s mother glanced up toward his father, who met her eyes through his reflection in the rearview mirror. Leaning back into the seat and yawning, she tugged at one of Blaine’s curls that had softened free from gel. “They will survive,” she said simply. “Just like us.”

"Will I never see them again? Not even Edwards?"

“I dunno,” she said. “Depends on if they want to be seen. In the end it's up to _them_ to make that choice, as it should be."

 

In the distance, on a small hill not far from campus—but nestled among the pines—Sebastian and Wes sat upon the grass, watching the faint glow the fire on the horizon cast in the dark. They sat together in silence, until the snap of a twig caused them to leap to their feet. 

Then the headmaster stepped out from beneath the canopy of pine branches. He walked up to them casually, hands in his pockets, as if he were simply out for an evening stroll. He seemed to be contemplating something. He looked back in the direction he’d come from, a small smile playing on his lips. One by one the Warblers stepped out from behind the trees surrounding the little hill. Some still had their jackets on, while others wore only their white Dalton shirts decorated with varying patterns of soot and grass stains—and the occasional tie. They formed a loose circle upon the hill, surrounding Sebastian and Wes.

“Well—now what?” asked Sebastian, as he surveyed the group, then turned to Wes in the dark.  

“Indeed,” said Wes, a look of astonishment on his face. His expression quickly relaxed into a smile, as he peered out past the Warblers and into the night, following the sparks rising up from Dalton until they seemed to become stars in the never-ending sky.


	12. Epilogue

“Shh!” whispered Blaine. “How are you so _loud?”_ For every quiet step Blaine took, Kurt seemed to take one that invariably involved snapping twigs. The twigs got harder to avoid, the closer they came to what was once the Dalton grounds.

“I am not _loud,”_ replied Kurt. “These tree limbs just won’t _bend,”_ he added. “Talk about poor design. I mean—“

_“Kurt.”_

_“Sorry,”_ he whispered dramatically. 

They entered the fence through the gate his mother had fashioned. From a distance, the place looked like ancient ruins—no one would ever suspect that just a few months ago, students walked the courtyard or played lacrosse in the fields, or that a group of them harmonized and danced along the mural-lined corridors. 

The boys walked hand-in-hand along the carpet of thick grass, which had come to life suddenly in the last few weeks. Part of the main building still stood, and as the boys stepped closer, they took in what remained of the atrium. The wrought iron dome dangled from what was left of the building’s facade. It was a warped mess. And yet, Blaine spied a small mound of twigs and feather tucked in between some of the metal. Blaine smiled at the sight. At least something could take up residence here, after all that had happened.   

“There really isn’t much left, is there?” Kurt offered, as he stepped carefully around the debris. “Whatever happened to the, um, the other students? You know, the non-Warbler ones. Are they just . . .” he trailed off, looking back at Blaine.

“Shut down?” Blaine supplied. 

Kurt shrugged. “Well. Yeah.”

“I saw a couple of the students when I went in with my dad for the debriefing. It was actually kind of sad—there was a room we walked past, but before we could really see anything some researchers in white lab coats shut the blinds. I still caught a glimpse of what was in there—several Dalton students,” Blaine swallowed, and continued, “They were in these individual chambers, and it was creepy because their eyes were open, but they weren’t _on._ They weren’t alive,” he said, feeling a knot clench in his stomach. He felt guilty for what had happened to them. Even though he was never friends with them the way he was with Kurt, he’d still spent _time_ with those boys. He’d felt affection, and seeing them there that day, motionless and unaware, he’d felt like he’d betrayed them somehow.

“Stop that,” Kurt said, looking down at Blaine’s foot, which was toeing the smaller chunks of brick. “I can hear you guilt-tripping from here. And you think _I’m_ loud.” 

Blaine glanced up at Kurt and smiled, then looked back down at the scattered debris. Kurt knew him so well sometimes. 

Something glistened under the rubble just then, catching Blaine’s eye. He stepped carefully over to whatever it was, then crouched down to remove some of the bricks pinning it to the ground.  

“What’s that?” asked Kurt.

“I dunno. There really shouldn’t be anything here—not any evidence of what the students were, anyway. I remember how the agents had scoured the wreckage after the fires stopped burning.” He tossed chunks of brick off to the side, and soon Kurt was crouched next to him doing the same. There was definitely something left. 

It was nothing but the cassette player from the now-destroyed music room. Blaine pulled it out from the rubble. “Well that was anti-climactic,” he said. “I thought maybe we’d unearth an important clue, you know, like the medallion in _Raiders of the Lost Ark,_ and—“

“Nerd Alert,” Kurt said, rolling his eyes. “And then you’d find yourself in a drinking contest with a burly Nepalese? I think I know who the winner of _that_ contest would be. You’re no Marion.” But then something flashed in Kurt’s eyes, and he swiped the radio from Blaine’s hands. “Give me that,” he said. 

“What?” Blaine asked.

He watched as Kurt opened the cassette player door. “Aha!” Kurt said triumphantly, holding the tape with “Blackbird” written in black marker on it. “No trip to a bar in Nepal required, and it’s a treasure just the same,” he said, smiling.

Blaine stood up in wonder at his boyfriend, such a silly romantic. “At least we got each other out of all this,” he offered, reaching out his hand for Kurt to take.

Kurt did, and the warmth of his touch jogged Blaine’s memory, back to the day he’d met a boy in bermudas on the Dalton staircase. He marveled at how his life, which had been so carefully constructed, had simply disassembled itself, each piece of it unlocking the next, until there was nothing at all left. He marveled at how that very thought, which in the past would’ve terrified him, now made him feel bright inside. Ecstatic, really. 

He let go of Kurt’s hand and started to make his way back the way they’d come, stopping near the perimeter of the ruins, where a low retaining wall was mostly intact. He climbed up, feeling the warmth of the late-spring sun. Balancing himself, Blaine jumped onto the grass below, then gestured for Kurt to follow. Kurt hopped down too, raising both arms in a proper gymnastics dismount. Blaine smiled and shook his head. 

Then Kurt leaned back against the wall and gazed at Blaine longingly.

“Shh,” whispered Blaine, as he crept closer and closer to Kurt. 

Kurt rolled his eyes, but he smiled as he did and said, quietly, “I told you, I am not _loud.”_

They were close now. Blaine reached out and grasped Kurt’s waist. Softly, he said, “You are _sometimes_.”

Kurt cackled.

“Shh—mmpf!" murmured Blaine, as Kurt quieted him with his lips. 

 

Eventually, they stepped back from the wall, then left it altogether behind.

Then a flock of geese honked its way past Dalton overhead, the warmer weather inviting them back to the area by instinct. If they’d cared enough to look down as they flew with coordinated effort into the wind, they would’ve spotted a dark-haired boy running along beneath them, arms outstretched, free as a bird, like them. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked the story! Comments are appreciated. Like cupcakes. Cupcakes are also appreciated. But comments are somewhat easier to share online :)


	13. Appendix A: About Magicalplaylist's Lovely Art

Once again, I'm so appreciative of the time and effort it took to bring this piece of stunning art together. I got to see it evolve, actually—from playlist's original vision to the final edits. As I said in the story's initial notes, I love how this piece captures  _Machines'_ themes. There's the referencing of the clock tower, which is a prominent setting in the story, one that represents a safe haven, a place of insight for Blaine (and Kurt). But also in the image is a subtle reference to the atrium dome at Dalton—and the cage the academy (at least in this AU) has become for Blaine. I like how the machinery itself is exposed, too, because so much of the story is about the inner workings of  things, from the cyborgs to the humans to love itself. One of the most striking elements, though, is the way playlist uses color (and often, the lack of it). I love how color emanating from Kurt seems to get transferred to Blaine, who does refer to Kurt as his "lifeline" in the story. 

So yeah. I have a lot of feels about this artwork. Please be sure you tell [playlist](http://magicalplaylist.tumblr.com) about your feels, too. 

 


	14. Appendix B: Richard Brautigan's "All Watched over by Machines of Loving Grace"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The full Brautigan poem, just for kicks.

I like to think (and

the sooner the better!)

of a cybernetic meadow

where mammals and computers

live together in mutually

programming harmony

like pure water

touching clear sky. 

 

I like to think

(right now, please!)

of a cybernetic forest

filled with pines and electronics

where deer stroll peacefully

past computers

as if they were flowers

with spinning blossoms. 

 

I like to think

(it has to be!)

of a cybernetic ecology

where we are free of our labors

and joined back to nature,

returned to our mammal

brothers and sisters,

and all watched over

by machines of loving grace.

 

_(1967)_


End file.
